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BY  JANET  ROSS     J 


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THE   FOURTH   GENERATION 


JANET   ROSS. 
By  Frank  Crisp. 


THE    FOURTH 
GENERATION 

REMINISCENCES  BY  JANET  ROSS 


AUTHOR    OF 
"three    generations    of    ENGLISH     WOMEN 
TO   WHICH 

IS    THE    SEQUEL 


THIRD    IMPRESSION 


LONDON 

CONSTABLE    &    COMPANY   LTD. 

1912 


PREFACE 

I  FEEL  that  the  title  of  this  book  needs  a  few  words  of  ex- 
planation. Life  moves  so  swiftly  nowadays  that  people 
are  soon  forgotten,  and  books  written  about  them  are 
put  away  on  top  shelves  out  of  sight,  and  therefore 
out  of  mind.  In  1888  when  I  offered  Mr.  John  Murray, 
an  old  family  friend,  my  Three  Generations  of  English  Women, 
to  which  this  is  a  sequel,  he  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  the 
title  was  a  good  one.  As  several  Three  Generations  (without 
the  English  Women)  have  appeared  since,  he  must  have  been 
right.  When  friends  urged  me  to  write  the  present  book, 
they  all  seemed  to  think  that  the  story  of  my  life  ought  to  be 
linked  in  some  way  to  that  of  my  mother,  grandmother,  and 
great-grandmother,  and  the  words  Fourth  Generation  were 
added  to  gratify  them. 

My  life  in  England  as  a  child,  in  Egypt  as  a  young  married 
woman,  and  in  later  years  in  Italy,  has  not  been  an  eventful 
one,  but  I  have  known  so  many  distinguished  people  who 
were  fond  of  me  for  the  sake  of  my  parents  and  grandparents, 
that  my  reminiscences  of  them  may  prove  interesting.  Only 
a  short  time  ago  the  Miss  Berrys  were  mentioned,  and  Mr. 
Berenson,  who  was  sitting  next  to  me,  exclaimed  ;  "  How 
I  should  like  to  have  met  someone  who  had  known  those  two 
dear  old  ladies."  When  I  said :  "  Well,  here  is  someone ; 
I  knew  them  and  remember  them  well,"  he  looked  astonished, 
and  repHed  :  "  Tou,  impossible."  The  truth  is  I  often  feel 
as  though  I  had  a  dual  personaHty — at  times  quite  old,  at 
others  many  years  younger  than  I  really  am. 


vi  PREFACE 

I  have  to  thank  Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall  for  kindly  per- 
mitting me  to  take  several  pages  out  of  Early  Days  Recalled, 
a  small  book  long  out  of  print  and  forgotten  ;  many  friends 
for  permission  to  include  various  letters  ;  and  above  all 
Mr.  W.  M.  Meredith  for  the  kind  interest  he  has  taken  in 
the  book,  and  for  allowing  me  to  print  his  father's  brilUant 

letters  to  me. 

Janet  Ross. 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Janet  Ross,  by  Frank  Crisp 


Frontispiece 


Janet  Duff  Gordon  and  Hatty,  by  the  Honble.  Mrs.  Norton 

Richard  Doyle,  by  Henry  W.  Phillips 

Letter  to  Lady  DufF  Gordon  from  the  Honble.  Mrs.  Norton 

Janet  DufF  Gordon,  from  a  miniature 

Austen  Henry  Layard  and  George  Frederick  Watts 

Janet  DufF  Gordon,  by  G.  F.  Watts  . 

Janet  DufF  Gordon,  by  G.  F.  Watts  . 

Letter  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon  from  Richard  Doyle 

The  Marquess  of  Lansdowne  and  Alex.  William  Kinglake 

Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  and  Victor  Cousin 

Ferdinand  de  Lesseps  and  George  Meredith 

Janet  Ross  in  Turkish  dress 

Janet  Ross,  by  Valentine  Prinsep 

Janet  Ross,  by  Lord  Leighton 

Tom  Taylor  and  Henry  W.  Phillips  . 

Sir  Alexander  DufF  Gordon 

Honble.  Mrs.  Norton,  by  G.  F.  Watts 

The  Marquess  of  Clanricarde  driving  his   cattle  to  Ballinasloe 

Fair,  by  Richard  Doyle 
Francois  Pierre  Guillaunie  Guizot 
John  Addington  Symonds 
Henry  James  Ross,  by  J.  Kerr-Lawson 
Lady  DufF  Gordon,  by  Henry  W.  Phillips 


FACING    PAGE 

8 


12 

i6 

24 

32 
40 

49 
54 
78 
89 
106 
130 

155 

172 
180 

193 

202 

228 
285 
298 
338 
376 


The   Fourth    Generation 

.    Reminiscences   by  Janet  Ross  . 


CHAPTER   I 

"They  are  but  Phantoms  now  ;  their  day  is  done. 
They  lived,  and  loved,  and  died,  and  now  are  dust. 
Shadows,  and  passed  into  their  shadowy  land 
Whence  there  is  no  return.     This  is  long  past, 
Yet  not  so  very  long,  but  that  a  breath, 
A  dreamy  memory  of  them  lingers  still 
On  air  that  once  they  breathed," 

SOME  months  ago  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  a  corner  of 
London  once  very  familiar.  It  was  called  Queen's 
Square  in  the  "  forties."  I  hoped  to  see  again — 
houses,  streets,  railings — something  like  the  picture 
memory  had  retained  vivid  since  my  childhood.  What  I  did 
see  was  for  the  most  part  strange  with  something  familiar. 
The  broad,  steep,  smoothly  flagged  entrance  from  Birdcage 
Walk,  formerly  impassable  for  carriages,  has  become  an 
ordinary  London  street.  Part  of  the  dear  old  square,  for 
Queen  Square  Place  was  really  an  integral  part  of  it,  has 
entirely  vanished.  The  ponderous  bulk  of  Queen  Anne's 
Mansions  has  crushed  it  out  of  sight,  and  buried  under  its 
foundations  the  houses  of  John  Austin,  Jeremy  Bentham,  in 
whose  house  James  Mill  lived,  and  the  pleasant  garden  of  the 
sage  in  which  my  mother  used  to  play  as  a  child.  My  grand- 
parents were  poor,  but  Mr.  Austin's  learning  and  eloquence 


2  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

and  his  wife's  rare  beauty,  masculine  intellect,  and  warm  heart 
attracted,  to  quote  The  Times,  "  as  remarkable  an  assemblage 
of  persons  as  ever  met  in  a  London  drawing-room.  There 
might  be  seen — a  dim  and  flitting  figure  of  the  past — Mr. 
Bentham  and  his  two  disciples,  James  and  John  Stuart  Mill, 
the  Grotes,  the  rising  lawyers  of  that  day  whose  success  has 
justified  the  promise  of  their  dawn,  Bickersteth,  Erie,  Romilly, 
and  Senior,  and  all  this  wisdom  and  learning  was  enlivened  in 
later  years  by  the  wit  of  Charles  Buller,  by  the  hearty  sallies  of 
Sydney  Smith,  by  the  polished  eloquence  of  Jeffrey,  by  the 
courteous  amenity  of  Lord  Lansdowne,  and  by  the  varied 
resources  of  foreign  visitors  who  found  a  home  by  Mrs. 
Austin's  hearth."  ^  The  railing  at  the  other  end  of  the  square 
with  its  gate  and  steps  down  into  the  lower  level  of  Park 
Street  has  disappeared.  The  delightful  old  irregularities  which 
gave  the  place  its  quaint  charm  and  which  I  had  held 
in  fond  remembrance  have  vanished.  Queen  Anne's  Gate, 
for  such  is  the  modern  name,  has  all  the  irreproachable 
rectitude  of  appearance  and  demeanour  which  characterizes 
the  innumerable  "  gates  "  and  "  squares  "  of  the  fashionable 
parts  of  modern  London.  It  was  refreshing  to  see  that  some 
of  the  old  houses  were  still  unchanged  externally,  retaining 
their  carved  porches,  and  all  my  childish  memories  were 
kindled  at  the  sight  of  the  house  with  its  projection,  and  the 
niche  in  which  still  stands  the  statue  of  "  good  Queen  Anne." 
That  house.  No.  8  Queen  Square,  was  my  home,  and  the 
statue  of  the  Queen  had  fascinated  me,  had  urged  me  to  make 
heroic  efforts  to  "  be  good,"  had  haunted  me  with  hopes  no 
disappointments  quenched,  and  had  been  the  object  of  much 
curiosity  and  a  little  dread.  For  my  nurse  had  often  told 
me  that  once  a  year,  on  the  anniversary  of  her  death,  when 
she  heard  the  clock  strike  twelve,  the  good  Queen  descended 
from  her  pedestal,  walked  three  times  round  the  square 
with  a  golden  crown  on  her  head  trailing  her  royal  robes 
behind  her  ;  but  only  very  good  little  girls  were  privileged  to 
see  her.    I  tried  hard  to  be  good,  and  succeeded  fairly  well  until 

1    The  Times,  Aug.,  l86S, 


REMINISCENCES  3 

my  grandmother  Gordon,  in  the  spring  of  1846,  brought 
me  a  fine  Leghorn  straw  hat  from  Italy.  It  flapped  in  my 
face  with  every  gust  of  wind,  and  I  hated  it.  It  was  to  me 
what  the  apple  tree  was  to  Eve,  and  gave  me  a  knowledge  of 
evil  which  was  not  altogether  void  of  pleasure.  The  third 
time  I  wore  it  to  go  to  Hertford  Street  and  thank  my  grand- 
mother the  wind  was  high  ;  so  I  waited  until  my  nurse  was 
feeding  the  ducks  in  St.  James's  Park,  tore  it  off,  and  put  it 
in  a  convenient  puddle  where  I  sat  down  upon  it.  My  father 
was  highly  amused  when  he  was  told  in  the  evening  of  my  mis- 
deed, but  the  nurse  was  horrified,  and  I  felt,  as  older  people  in 
other  circumstances  have  done,  that  henceforward  my  chance 
of  seeing  the  "  beatific  vision  "  was  but  small. 

My  father,  Sir  Alexander  Cornewall  Duff  Gordon,  born 
in  181 1,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  William  Duff  Gordon  and 
of  Caroline,  youngest  daughter  of  Sir  George  Cornewall. 
Sir  William  died  after  three  days'  illness,  when  my  father 
was  only  eleven  years  old,  leaving  his  family  comparatively 
badly  off.  So  when  my  father  left  Eton  he  became  a  clerk 
in  the  Treasury,  and  always  prided  himself  on  not  having 
cost  his  mother  a  shilling  from  that  day.  Tall  and  strikingly 
handsome,  his  charming  manners,  witty  conversation,  and 
knowledge  of  languages,  soon  gained  him  a  reputation  in 
London  society.  Through  the  influence  of  his  cousin.  Lord 
Aberdeen,  he  was  appointed  a  Gentleman  Usher  to  the  Queen, 
and  later  in  life  became  private  secretary  to  another  cousin, 
Sir  George  Cornewall  Lewis  when  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer ;  who  used  to  declare  :  "  Whenever  I  have  to  say  No 
to  anyone  I  send  Alexander  ;  he  is  so  agreeable  and  pleasant 
that  the  man  goes  away  comparatively  happy  and  contented." 
My  father  was  the  most  unselfish  and  the  kindest  of  men  ; 
no  one  ever  heard  an  unkind  word  fall  from  his  lips  ;  and  he 
spent  his  life  in  trying  to  make  others  happy.  When  Sir  George 
became  Minister  for  War  he  appointed  my  father  one  of  the 
Commissioners  of  Inland  Revenue,  an  office  he  held  until  his 
death  in  1872. 

My  mother,  the  only  child  of  John  and  Sarah  Austin, 
came    from    two    families    remarkable    for    intellectual    force 


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REMINISCENCES  5 

and  liberal  ideas,  the  Austins  and  the  Taylors.  I  hardly  re- 
member her  in  the  zenith  of  her  beauty,  or  only  indistinctly. 
But  our  old  friend  Kinglake  wrote  to  me  shortly  before  his 
death  :  "  Can  I,  how  can  I  trust  myself  to  speak  of  your  dear 
mother's  beauty  in  the  phase  it  had  reached  when  I  first  saw 
her  ?  The  classical  form  of  her  features,  the  noble  poise  of 
her  head  and  neck,  her  stately  height,  her  uncoloured  yet 
pure  complexion,  caused  some  of  the  beholders  at  first  to 
call  her  beauty  statuesque,  and  others  to  call  it  majestic, 
some  pronouncing  it  to  be  even  imperious.  But  she  was  so 
intellectual,  so  keen,  so  autocratic,  sometimes  even  so  im- 
passioned in  speech,  that  nobody,  feeling  her  powers,  could  well 
go  on  feebly  comparing  her  to  a  statue  or  a  mere  queen  or 
empress." 

My  father  met  the  Austins  first  at  Lansdowne  House,  and 
was  at  once  attracted  by  the  mother  and  interested  in  the 
daughter.  Lucie  Austin's  life  was  a  lonely  one,  owing  to  her 
mother's  literary  occupations  and  her  father's  very  poor 
health.  The  two  young  people  used  to  go  out  walking  together, 
and  one  day  my  father  abruptly  said  :  "  Miss  Austin,  do  you 
know  people  say  we  are  going  to  be  married  ?  "  Annoyed 
at  being  talked  about,  and  still  more  at  his  way  of  telling  her, 
she  was  just  going  to  give  a  brusque  answer  when  he  added  : 
"  Shall  we  make  it  true  ?  "  With  characteristic  straight- 
forwardness she  replied  by  the  monosyllable  "  Yes."  They 
were  married  in  Kensington  old  church  in  May,  1840,  and 
my  cousin,  Henry  Reeve,  often  spoke  of  the  uncommon 
beauty  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  of  the  bride's  mother. 

A  remarkable  circle  of  literary  and  artistic  friends  soon 
gathered  round  the  Duff  Gordons,  and  when  my  grand- 
mother Austin's  foreign  acquaintance  came  to  London, 
they  found  a  warm  welcome  in  Queen  Square.  Thus  from 
earliest  childhood  I  heard  brilliant  conversation  in  various 
languages  on  many  subjects.  Politics,  which  never  had  any 
attraction  for  me,  were  keenly  discussed  because  C.  J.  Bayley 
was  then  living  with  us,  and  writing  leading  articles  in 
The  Times  which  excited  considerable  attention.  The  de- 
bates on  the  Corn  Laws  in  1846  I  regarded  as  personal  enemies 


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REMINISCENCES  7 

— they  took  up  so  much  of  Bayley's  time.  A  smaller  room  behind 
the  long  dining-room  was  the  sanctum  of  "  our  lodger,"  who 
was,  I  believe,  regarded  with  awe  by  people  who  only  knew 
him  as  the  Thunderer  of  the  then  mighty  newspaper.  The 
kindest,  most  genial  of  men,  dear  little  Bayley  became  my  play- 
fellow and  slave,  and  great  was  my  grief  when  he  accepted  the 
post  of  secretary  to  the  Governor  of  the  Mauritius,  and  left 
England  in  1849.  Laughter  was  loud  and  long  when  Bayley, 
Tom  Taylor,  Mowbray  Morris  and  my  father  were  together. 

I  was  a  spoiled  and  rather  lonely  child.  Nearly  all  my  friends 
were  old  people — old  at  least  to  me,  contemporaries  of  my 
grandparents  and  of  my  father  and  mother.  Richard  Doyle  I 
especially  loved,  because  he  drew  for  me  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  my  fairy  tales  as  I  sat  upon  his  knee.  My  nurse 
read  aloud  to  me,  and  I  can  still  remember  the  terrible  blank 
in  my  young  life  when  "  Narty  "  married.  Her  successor 
scoffed  at  fairies  and  giants,  so  I  painfully  taught  myself  to 
read,  much  encouraged  by  Charles  Dickens,  who  gave  me  what 
he  called  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  books,  the  Seven 
Champions  of  Christendom.  My  father,  whom  I  adored,  was 
away  all  day  at  his  office,  and  my  mother  wrote  a  great  deal. 
After  her  marriage  she  finished  a  translation  of  Niebuhr's 
Stories  of  the  Gods  and  Heroes  of  Greece,  which  was  published 
in  1842  under  the  name  of  her  mother,  Mrs.  Austin.  The 
following  year  her  translation  of  the  Amber  Witch,  still  a 
classic,  appeared,  and  soon  afterwards  that  of  the  French  in 
Algiers  and  Remarkable  Criminal  Trials. 

My  loneliness  came  to  an  end  with  the  addition  to  our 
household  of  a  small  black  boy,  Hassan  el  Bakkeet,  commonly 
called  Hatty.  He  belonged  to  an  Italian  who  lived  in  the  same 
house  as  Signor  Prandi,  one  of  the  many  penniless  Itahan 
exiles  to  whom  my  grandmother  Austin  was  kind  and  helpful, 
and  of  whom  my  mother  was  fond.  Hatty  had  often  been  sent 
to  our  house  with  notes,  and  when  his  master  turned  him  out 
into  the  street  because  he  was  supposed  to  be  going  blind,  he 
came,  as  he  said,  to  die  on  the  doorstep  of  the  beautiful  pale 
lady.  There  my  mother  found  him  one  night  on  her  return 
from  some  party,  and  he  became  her  devoted  servant  and  slave, 


8  THE    FOURTH   GENERATION 

and  my  beloved  playfellow.  He  was  about  twelve  years  old, 
and  probably  a  Nubian.  I  believe  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  some  English  missionaries  when  a  baby,  so  that  he  not  only 
spoke  English  well  and  without  a  foreign  accent,  but  was 
always  ready  with  phrases  in  use  among  pious  people,  and 
liked  when  he  could  to  apply  them  as  a  means  of  giving  honour 
to  his  beloved  master  and  mistress.  So  that  if,  for  example, 
it  happened  that  a  visitor  called  on  Sunday  and  they  were 
not  at  home,  he  was  sure  to  be  told  by  Hatty  that  Sir  Alexander 
and  Mylady  v/ere  at  church,  or  even,  for  his  diction  was 
equal  to  this,  that  they  were  attending  divine  service.  I  dis- 
tinctly recollect  Mr.  Hilliard,  the  American  author,  being 
shocked  at  seeing  me  in  Hatty's  arms,  and  my  rage  when  he 
asked  my  mother  how  she  could  let  a  negro  touch  her  child. 
Whereupon  she  called  us  to  her,  and  kissed  me  first  and  Hatty 
afterwards.  I  cannot  remember  the  name  of  the  oculist  who 
cured  Hatty's  eyes,  but  he  wanted  the  boy  to  take  service 
with  him,  promising  to  dress  him  in  scarlet  and  give  him  j^i2 
a  year.  My  mother  advised  Hatty  to  accept,  but  he  threw 
himself  at  her  feet  in  a  passion  of  tears,  and  begged  to  be 
whipped  rather  than  sent  away. 

My  mother  had  the  courage  to  practise  true  Christian 
kindness  under  conditions  from  which  many  people  might 
often  shrink.  A  certain  Mary,  known  to  the  household,  had 
brought  herself  into  trouble  by  omitting  the  precaution  of 
marriage,  and  to  secure  the  girl  a  safe  refuge  my  mother 
determined  to  take  her  into  her  service.  Before  doing  this, 
however,  she  assembled  the  other  servants  and  warned  them 
that  instant  dismissal  would  be  the  penalty  for  saying  a  single 
unkind  word  to  Mary.  Then  small,  jet-black  Hassan,  possessed 
^^■ith  an  idea  of  the  dignity  of  his  sex,  conceived  it  his  duty  to 
become  the  spokesman  of  the  rest,  and  accordingly  advancing 
a  little  in  front  of  the  neat-aproned,  tall  maid-servants,  he 
promised  in  his  and  their  name  a  full  and  careful  obedience 
to  the  mistress's  orders  ;  then  wringing  his  hands  and  raising 
them  over  his  head,  he  added  :  "  What  a  lesson  to  us  all,  My- 
lady." 

When  mv  first  little  brother,  v.ho  died  when  a  few  months 


A 


JANET    DUFF   GORDON   AND    HATTY. 
By  The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. 


REMINISCENCES  9 

old,  was  born,  Hatty  announced  triumphantly  to  all  callers  : 
*'  We  have  got  a  boy,"  and  was  so  elated  that  I  wished  to 
change  my  sex,  a  boy  being  evidently  so  much  more  important 
than  a  girl.  He  was  very  careful  of  the  reputation  for  hos- 
pitality of  my  parents,  and  one  evening  when  Prince  Louis 
Napoleon  came  in  unexpectedly  to  dinner,  he  whispered  to 
my  mother :  "  Please,  Mylady,  I've  run  out  and  bought  two- 
pennyworth  of  sprats  for  the  honour  of  the  house." 

One  of  my  early  recollections  is  seeing  my  mother  dress  for 
a  party  at  Charles  Dickens's,  and  thinking  that,  though  she 
was  rather  too  big,  she  looked  like  a  beautiful  fairy  queen. 
At  midnight  I  was  awoke  by  violent  ringing  and  knocking  at 
the  front  door.  A  policeman  had  found  my  father  holding  on 
to  the  railings,  and  at  first  thought  he  was  drunk,  but  soon  saw 
he  was  too  ill  to  get  up  the  steps  without  help.  My  mother 
was  acting  in  a  charade,  and  my  father,  feeling  unwell,  had 
slipped  away  unseen.  Our  cousin  and  doctor,  Edward  Rigby,  was 
sent  for,  and  pronounced  it  a  bad  case  of  cholera.  Soon  after- 
wards my  mother  arrived,  very  uneasy,  and  I  well  remember 
how  strange  she  looked  next  morning  in  her  red  dressing-gown, 
even  paler  than  usual,  her  magnificent  hair  coiled  round  and 
round  her  head  with  a  jewel  stuck  in  here  and  there. 

Our  kind  old  friend,  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  lent  my 
parents  his  villa  at  Richmond,  where  my  father  soon  recovered 
his  health.  "  Here  we  are,"  wrote  my  mother  to  Mrs.  Austin, 
who  was  in  Paris,  "  in  the  most  perfect  of  villas.  .  .  .  The  Berrys 
are  here  in  Mrs.  Lamb's  house,  and  Lady  Char  [Lady  Char- 
lotte Lindsay]  at  Petersham,  all  well  and  youthful.  Mr.  Senior 
is  vacation  master  in  London  again  this  year,  and  finds  us  a 
godsend  for  his  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  We  have  had  various 
people  here,  and  many  more  have  announced  their  intention 
of  coming.  Aunt  Reeve  first,  and  the  Gordons,  Lord  Lansdowne 
himself  for  a  day  or  two  in  passing  through  London,  and  he 
'  was  so  much  obliged  for  our  kind  hospitality  in  giving  him 
a  dinner  and  a  bed,'  Dwarkanauth  Tagore,  the  clever  Hindoo 
merchant,  and  Landseer  and  Eastlake.  Our  faithful  friend 
Eothen  [Kinglake]  left  us  yesterday  for  Algeria,  where  he 
hopes  to  join  Abd-el-Kader,  if  possible.     I  gave  him  several 


10  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

letters  for  Paris,  and  bade  him  find  you  out  and  call  on  you 
in  October  on  his  way  back.  I  don't  know  whether  you  will 
make  much  out  of  him,  for  he  is  both  shy  and  reserved.  But 
when  once  the  ice  is  broken  he  is  very  amusing,  and  he  nursed 
Alick,  and  helped  and  cheered  me  with  the  gentleness  and  kind- 
ness of  a  woman. . . .  Little  Janet  is  grown  so  tall,  quite  a  girl  and 
not  a  baby,  and  she  asks  verniinftig  [sensible]  questions,  and  is 
somebody.  She  always  quotes  you  as  '  the  danmama  who  let 
me  play  with  ink.'  She  has  quite  Alick's  figure,  and  '  turns  her 
round  lichtly  as  the  Gordons  do  a'.'  This  house  is  Bowood, 
on  a  diminished  scale,  as  to  comfort,  all  a  la  Lansdowne. 
Elise's  amazement  and  admiration  were  very  amusing,  and 
Hassan  is  an  inch  taller  for  our  grandeur — peu  s'en  Jaut,  he 
thinks  me  a  great  lady  and  himself  a  great  butler.  .  .  ." 

I  sometimes  went  to  tea  with  the  Miss  Berrys  and  with 
Lady  Charlotte  Lindsay.  Of  Miss  Berry  I  was  rather  afraid, 
but  Miss  Agnes  was  very  kind  and  surreptitiously  gave  me  more 
cake  than  I  ought  to  have  had.  They  always  said  "  a  dish  of 
tea,"  which  struck  me  as  very  funny.  Long  afterwards  I 
asked  my  grandmother  Gordon  to  tell  me  about  the  two  sisters, 
with  whom  she  had  been  intimate  from  1811  until  1852, 
when  Agnes  died  in  January,  and  Miss  Berry  in  November 
in  her  ninetieth  year.  "  Mary  Berry,"  said  my  grandmother, 
"  was  handsome  and  clever.  After  the  death  of  her  mother 
she  became  head  of  the  house,  as  her  father  was  a  weak,  un- 
decided man.  Agnes,  the  second  sister,  was  not  so  clever, 
but  very  pretty  and  more  feminine.  Some  wit  of  that  day 
[18 1 2]  called  Mr.  Berry,  '  Gooseberry  ' ;  Mary,  '  Elderberry  '  ; 
and  Agnes,  '  Blackberry.'  Mary  Berry  was  always  fond  of  the 
society  of  clever,  intelligent  men,  and  when  they  settled  in 
London  the  society  that  met  at  their  house  in  the  most  easy, 
sociable  manner  was  always  agreeable  ;  it  was  the  only  place 
where  people  of  sense  and  talent  (artists  especially)  and  men 
of  high  position,  such  as  Lord  Lansdowne,  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire, all  the  Cavendishes  and  Howards,  Lords  Jeffrey,  Broug- 
ham and  Dudley,  Sydney  Smith,  Madame  de  Stael  and  all 
distinguished  foreigners,  met  together.  I  never  thought  Mary 
Berry  was  clever  in  what  she  said,  still  clever  men  liked  talking 


REMINISCENCES  ij 

to  her.  But  she  and  her  sister  had  the  great  talent  of  making 
people  appreciate  themselves,  and  of  making  them  feel  that 
they  were  liked  and  wished  for  and  listened  to.  Horace 
Walpole's  love  for  his '  favourite  Berrys  '  is  a  matter  of  history  ; 
and  had  Miss  Berry  been  less  honourable  and  upright  she  might 
have  been  Lady  Orford.  He  offered  her  his  hand  and  a 
handsome  jointure,  promising  that  '  he  would  soon  die.'  All 
his  property  being  entailed,  he  could  only  leave  Little  Straw- 
berry Hill  to  the  two  sisters.  His  '  dear  wives,'  as  he  called 
them,  persuaded  him  to  write  his  reminiscences  of  the  courts 
of  George  I  and  his  son.  One  of  the  great  charms  of  Miss 
Berry  was  her  sympathy  with  and  her  constancy  to  her  friends. 
She  used  to  say,  '  I  put  the  mark  in  the  book,'  and  no  one 
moved  it  until,  after  any  lapse  of  time,  one  returned  to  do  so 
oneself.  Another  pleasant  trait  was  the  ease  with  which  she 
was  amused.  I  have  seen  her  laugh  a  gorge  defloye  at  mere 
nonsense.  The  loss  of  the  Berry  salon  can  only  be  understood 
by  those  to  whom  it  had  been  open  for  more  than  half  a 
century.  Lady  Charlotte  Lindsay,  '  dear  Lady  Char,'  as  her 
friends  called  her,  was  rarely  absent  from  their  fireside.  Her 
playful  imagination,  wit  (without  a  sting),  and  boundless  good 
humour,  made  her  the  delight  of  old  and  young.  She  was  Hke 
a  ball,  without  any  angles,  and  meeting  her  was  like  going  into 
a  warm  room  on  a  cold  day — one  felt  happy  all  over." 

My  grandmother  let  me  copy  a  faded  slip  of  green  paper, 
dated  January,  1845,  one  of  the  yearly  invitations  to  call  in 
at  8  Curzon  Street.  This  one  was  written  by  the  Dowager 
Lady  Morley. 

"NOTICE. 

No.  8  CURZON  ST.,  MAYFAIR. 

M.  AND  A.  BERRY 

are  happy  in  the  occasion  of  this  new  year  to  offer  their 
sincere  thanks  to  all  the  numerous  body  of  distinguished 
friends,  affectionate  intimates,  and  entertaining  companions, 
by  whose  aid  and  assistance  they  have  passed  the  last  twenty 
years  of  their  lives.     This  agreeable  association  must  finally 


12  THE  FOURTH   GENERATION 

close.  But  on  a  much  smaller  scale  an  attempt  will  still  be  made 
to  combine  octogenarian  cheerfulness  with  the  valued  society 
of  such  as  may  be  disposed  to  allow  themselves  to  assist  the 
Old  Firm,  and  to  procure  for  its  partners  all  they  can  now  hope 
in  the  company  they  must  ever  the  most  enjoy." 

In  August,  1847,  we  joined  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Austin  in  the 
Ardennes.  Prince  Pierre  Buonaparte  was  in  the  same  hotel, 
and  when  introduced  to  my  mother,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Mais, 
Madame,  vous  etes  des  notres.  Vous  etes  une  Buonaparte.^' 
Taking  her  hand,  he  led  her  to  a  looking-glass.  "  On  dit  que 
je  ressemhle  au  grand  Empereur,  mais  regardez,  Madame, 
voire  figure,  c^est  son  image.''  In  fact.  Prince  Pierre  and  my 
mother  might  have  passed  for  first  cousins.  From  Dinant-sur- 
Meuse  we  drove  to  the  grottoes  of  Han.  I  have  never  forgotten 
them.  It  seemed  to  m^e  that  we  walked  for  miles  underground 
in  narrow  passages  w^hich  led  into  vast  halls,  with  stalactites 
hanging  like  great  chandeliers  from  the  roof.  In  one  cave 
the  torches  held  by  our  guides  only  lit  up  the  small  angle 
where  we  stood,  and  a  man  ran  forward  and  far  away  up  a 
winding  path  cut  in  the  side  of  the  cavern,  shouting,  as  he 
ascended,  till  his  voice  became  quite  faint  and  his  torch  almost 
invisible.  After  walking  along  the  bank  of  a  little  river  which 
winds  through  these  vmderground  grottoes,  we  got  into  a  boat 
and  rowed  along  on  the  dark  water  until  we  saw'  a  faint  glimmer 
of  light  ahead.  At  last  we  emerged  into  bright  sunlight  and 
heard  the  birds  singing.  When  I  recounted  our  visit  to  the 
caverns  of  Han  to  some  small  friends  next  door,  they  would 
not  believe  me,  and  said  it  was  only  one  of  my  fairy  tales, 
but  a  very  dull  one,  because  there  was  no  queen  or  handsome 
young  prince  in  the  story. 

The  great  event  of  my  life  was  my  birthday,  A^■hen  I  was 
allowed  to  dine  downstairs,  and  to  invite  my  particular  friends. 
My  fifth  I  well  remember,  for  Thackeray  played  a  trick 
on  the  "  young  revolutionist,"  as  he  afterwards  called  me, 
because  I  was  born  on  the  24th  of  February.  My  guests  were 
Mrs.  Norton,  Lord  Lansdowne,  Tom  Taylor,  Bayley,  Richard 
Doyle  and  Thackeray,  who  gave  me  an  oyster,  declaring  that 
it  was  like  cabinet  pudding.     But  I  turned  the  tables  on  him. 


y 


'Srj. 


RICHARD    DOVLE. 
3y  Henry  W.  Phillips. 


REMINISCENCES  13 

for  I  liked  it,  and  insisted,  as  queen  of  the  day,  on  having  two 
more  of  his.  I  still  possess  a  sketch  he  made  for  the  frontispiece 
of  Pendennis  while  I  was  sitting  on  his  knee.  He  often  dropped 
in  to  dinner,  sometimes  announcing  himself  in  verse.  The 
following  is  one  of  his  epistles  : — 

*'  A  nice  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucie, 
I  pray  thee  have  ready  for  me ; 
Have  it  smoking  and  tender  and  juicy, 
For  no  better  meat  can  tliere  be." 

My  sixth  birthday  in  the  eventful  year  1848  was  not 
celebrated  by  the  usual  dinner,  to  my  great  chagrin.  My 
grandmother  Austin  had  fled  from  Paris  and  was  with  us, 
much  alarmed  about  her  French  friends,  particularly  about  the 
Guizots.  Every  hour  brought  worse  news.  Instead  of  a 
dinner  with  dear  Tom  Taylor  as  toastmaster,  an  office  he 
filled  for  many  consecutive  years  to  everyone's  amusement 
and  delight,  my  birthday  was  celebrated  by  barricades,  blood- 
shed, the  falling  of  a  throne,  and  the  flight  of  a  king.  On 
the  afternoon  of  March  ist  Lord  Lansdowne  sent  to  say 
that  M.  Guizot  was  reported  to  have  landed  in  Jersey  with  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans  and  her  two  boys.  On  his  arrival  in  London 
with  his  daughters  they  came  to  our  house,  and  he  often  told 
me  afterwards  what  a  haven  of  rest  it  seemed.  Well  do  I 
remember  how  disappointed  I  was  when  a  small,  neatly 
dressed  gentleman  came  into  the  room,  looking  very  much 
like  anybody  else,  with  rather  cold,  stand-offish  manners. 
I  had  heard  so  much  about  the  Prime  Minister  of  France  from 
my  grandmother,  who  had  a  culte  for  him,  that  I  expected  to 
see  a  magnificent  man  covered  with  gold  embroidoiry  and  all 
splashed  with  blood.  I  told  my  nurse  that  it  had  not  been  at 
all  worth  while  to  put  on  my  best  frock  as  there  was  nothing 
extraordinary  about  M.  Guizot.  Long  afterwards  a  friend 
who  was  in  Paris  during  the  revolution,  told  me  that  one  of  the 
most  impressive  things  he  had  ever  seen  or  heard  was  Mile. 
Rachel,  draped  in  the  tricolour  flag,  declaiming  the  "  Marseil- 
laise "  at  the  Theatre  Frangais.  She  looked,  he  said,  like  the 
Goddess  of  Revolution  ;  and  he,  a  staid  Englishman,  was  so 


14  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

carried  away  by  her  marvellous  art   that  he  stood  up  on  his 
seat  and  cheered  as  frantically  as  his  neighbours. 

The  revolution  in  France  gave  an  immediate  impulse  to 
the  Chartist  agitation  in  England.  Several  people  we  knew  left 
London  early  in  April,  fearing  there  might  be  trouble.  My 
mother  only  smiled,  and  said  :  "  Oh,  my  men  will  look  after 
me."  She  had  made  friends  with  the  men  at  Mr.  Bridges 
Adams'  works  at  Bow,  where  she  started  a  library,  and  some- 
times went  to  meetings  and  discussed  politics  with  them. 
The  men  adored  her,  and  called  her  "  Our  Lady."  On  the 
evening  of  April  9th,  1848,  I  remember  standing  on  a  chair 
between  my  mother  and  Tom  Taylor,  who  had  his  arm  round 
me,  while  a  party  of  stalwart  working  men  in  fustian  jackets 
sat  at  table  cheering  Tom  Taylor's  speeches  to  the  echo. 
When  at  last  my  mother  made  a  speech,  winding  up  by  calling 
the  men  her  "  Gordon  volunteers,"  such  a  hip,  hip,  hurrah 
resounded  that  the  Hawes,  who  lived  opposite,  were  startled. 
My  father  had  been  sworn  in  as  a  special  constable,  and  was 
out  patrolling  the  streets  with  Prince  Louis  Napoleon.  In 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Austin,  my  mother  describes  the  scene  : — 

"  I  never  wish  to  see  forty  better  gentlemen  than  we  had 
here  last  night.  As  all  was  quiet  we  had  supper  ;  cold  beef, 
bread  and  beer,  with  songs,  sentiments  and  toasts,  such  as  : 
Success  to  the  roof  we  are  under  ;  Liberty,  Brotherhood  and 
Order.  Then  they  bivouacked  in  the  different  houses  till 
five  this  morning  when  they  started  home.  Among  the  party 
was  a  stray  policeman  who  looked  rather  wonder-struck. 
Tom  Taylor  was  capital ;  made  short  speeches,  told  stories, 
and  kept  all  in  high  good  humour  ;  and  Alick  came  home  and 
was  received  with  great  glee  and  affection.  All  agreed  that  the 
fright,  to  us  at  least,  was  well  made  up  by  the  kindly,  pleasant 
evening.  As  no  one  would  accept  a  penny  we  shall  send  books 
to  the  library,  or  a  contribution  to  the  school  ;  all  our  neigh- 
bours being  quite  anxious  to  pay,  though  not  willing  to 
fraternize.  I  shall  send  cravats  as  a  badge  to  the  '  Gordon 
volunteers.'  I  enclose  a  letter  from  Eothen  about  Paris, 
which  will  interest  you.    My  friends  of  yesterday  unanimously 


REMINISCENCES  15 

agreed  that  Louis  Blanc  would  just  suit  the  '  lazy  set.'  We 
had  one  row,  which,  however,  ceased  on  the  appearance  of  our 
stalwart  troop  ;  indeed,  I  think  one  Birmingham  smith,  a 
handsome  fellow  six  feet  high,  whose  vehement  disinterested- 
ness would  neither  allow  him  to  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  in  the  house, 
would  have  scattered  them.  .  .  ." 

My  parents  often  went  to  Mr.  Rogers's  Sunday-morning 
breakfasts  in  St.  James's  Place,  and  he  insisted  that  his  "  baby- 
love,"  as  he  called  me,  should  come  later  for  dessert.  A  great 
treat  it  was,  for  the  old  poet  kept  a  bunch  of  grapes  for  me, 
which  I  ate  perched  on  a  chair  and  two  cushions  by  his  side. 
Would  that  I  could  recollect  the  talk  that  charmed  me,  young 
as  I  was,  so  much,  that  the  highest  praise  I  could  think  of  for 
a  grand  Twelfth-night  party  at  Baroness  de  Rothschild's  was 
"  It  is  almost  as  nice  as  Mr.  Rogers's  breakfasts."  Long  after- 
wards my  mother  told  me  that  one  morning  the  conversation 
turned  on  fame,  and  Rogers  related  how  he  was  once 
dining  at  Pope's  villa  at  Richmond  with  Byron  and  Moore, 
when  the  same  subject  was  discussed.  Singing  was  heard  in 
the  distance,  and  presently  a  boat  full  of  people  floated  past. 
They  were  singing  Love's  Young  Dream.  Byron  put  his  hand 
on  Moore's  shoulder,  saying  :   "  There,  that  is  fame." 

The  poet  told  me  to  be  sure  and  always  get  up  early,  like 
a  good  little  child,  and  see  the  sun  rise,  and  to  look  at  the  sunset 
before  going  to  bed,  and  then  perhaps  some  day  I  might  write 
poetry.  "  Prose  you  w'ill  certainly  write  well,"  he  added  ; 
"  it's  in  your  blood,"  an  expression  I  did  not  understand. 
Seeing  me  stare  into  vacancy,  a  trick  inherited  from  my  mother, 
Mr.  Rogers  patted  me  on  the  head,  and  asked  what  I  was 
thinking  about.  "  Which  is  the  most  beautiful,  Mamma  or. 
Aunt  Carrie  ?  "  I  answered.  "  Ah,  baby-love,  that  would 
puzzle  wiser  heads  than  yours,"  said  he,  chuckling.  I  always 
called  Mrs.  Norton  Aunt  Carrie,  although  there  was  no  relation- 
ship. She  was  an  intimate  friend  of  my  parents,  and  my 
mother,  in  her  impetuous  way,  had  taken  up  her  cause  against 
her  husband  so  warmly,  that  she  refused  every  invitation 
to  great  London  houses  to  which  her  friend  was  not  asked. 
As  she  was  extremely  admired,  and  very  popular  on  account 


i6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

of  her  beauty  and  her  conversational  powers,  she  was  able  to 
be  of  use  to  her.  Aunt  Carrie's  glorious  beauty  and  deep,  rich, 
soft  voice,  had  an  extraordinary  fascination  for  me,  even  as 
a  small  child.  The  following  note,  referring  to  the  famous 
statue  of  Queen  Anne,  was  written  by  her  some  time  after 
the  birth,  in  March,  1849,  of  my  brother  Maurice.  "  Toodte  " 
was  the  name  my  mother  went  by  among  intimate  friends, 
it  was  how  she  pronounced  Lucie  in  her  baby  days. 

As  I  remember  Mrs.  Norton's  musical  voice,  so  I  remember 
Tennyson's  as  rather  gruff  and  monotonous.  He  some- 
times read  his  poems  aloud  in  Queen  Square,  and  told  my 
mother  he  had  her  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  The  Princess. 
I  don't  think  she  was  as  much  flattered  as  many  of  his  admirers 
would  have  been.  Once  at  dinner,  when  Tom  Taylor  and 
Kinglake  were  there,  who  both  afterwards  told  me  the  story 
with  amusement,  Tennyson  burst  forth  :    "  I  never  loved  a 

dear  gazelle,   but   some   d d    brute,  that's  you,   Gordon, 

had  married  her  first." 

My  mother  always  loved  animals,  and  had  a  special  gift 
for  taming  them.  A  small  mouse  which  lived  behind  the 
wainscot  in  the  drawing-room  came  out  regularly  every  evening 
at  dusk,  scrambled  up  into  her  lap,  and  nibbled  a  biscuit  she 
held  between  her  fingers.  I  was  often  allowed  to  sit  at  her 
feet  to  watch  him.  One  evening  I  saw  my  mother's  large  eyes 
suddenly  grow  bigger,  and  forgetting  all  about  her  tiny  pet, 
she  hastily  rose,  exclaiming  :  "  My  dear  Eothen,  what,  are  you 
back  ?  "  The  mouse  scurried  into  its  hole,  and  my  mother  went 
into  the  back  drawing-room,  divided  from  the  larger  room 
by  an  archway  and  heavy  looped-up  red  curtains.  I  had  seen 
nothing,  but  my  mother  declared  that  Eothen  had  walked 
across  the  other  room.  Hassan  was  called,  and  said  the  door- 
bell had  not  rung,  and  that  no  one  had  come  in.  No  one  could 
have  entered  the  house,  he  added,  as  he  was  laying  the  cloth 
for  dinner,  and  the  dining-room  door  opened  into  the  hall. 
Still,  my  mother  was  not  satisfied,  and  fighting  candles,  she 
searched  again.  The  hour  and  the  minute  were  written  down, 
and  when  Kinglake  returned  from  his  travels,  he  and  my 
mother  compared  notes.    There  was  no  adventure  to  account 


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REMINISCENCES  17 

for  his  wraith  appearing  to  disturb  the  small  mouse,  which  was 
very  shy  for  many  evenings  after.  Eothen  was  often  told 
that  he  spoiled  a  good  ghost  story  by  coming  back  safe  and 
sound. 


CHAPTER    II 

MR.  AND  MRS.  AUSTIN  were  driven  out  of  Paris 
by  the  revolution,  and  rented  a  cottage,  or  r.'itl.tr 
two  cottages  with  communicating  doors,  at  Wey- 
bridge,  where  John  Edward  Taylor,  my  grand- 
mother's nephew,  lived.  His  eldest  daughter,  Lucy,  was  my 
constant  companion  and  friend — a  friendship  that  has  never 
waned  to  this  day.  We  were  very  like  each  other,  the  Taylor 
blood  being  strong  ;  only  Lucy,  having  sisters  and  a  brother, 
was  much  better  "  brought  up,"  i.e.  not  so  spoilt  as  I  was. 
It  is  a  wonder  my  love  for  her  was  not  turned  to  hate  by 
hearing  my  nurse  say  so  often,  "  I'm  sure  Miss  Lucy  would 
not  be  allowed  to  behave  like  that."  We  spent  the  summers 
of  1849  ^^^  1^5°  i^  one  part  of  Nutfield  Cottage  ;  and  there, 
as  a  small  child,  I  made  two  friendships  which  were  very  dear 
to  me.  In  August,  1849,  arrived  M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire 
from  Paris  on  a  visit  to  my  grandparents,  and  at  once  adopted 
me  as  his  -petite- amie.  Long  afterwards  I  asked  him  how  he  had 
first  known  Mrs.  Austin,  and  he  wrote  to  me  : — 

M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Boulevard  Flandrin  4,  Paris. 
"  Ma  chere  Janet, 

C'est  en  1840  que  j'ai  connu  Madame  Austin,  a  qui  M. 
Victor  Cousin  m'avait  presente  ;  elle  etait  encore  fort  belle  a 
cette  epoque,  son  teint  etait  eblouissant,  et  elle  I'a  garde 
jusqu'a  sa  mort.  Elle  avait  un  air  de  vigueur  extraordinaire,  et 
beaucoup  de  calme,  quoiqu'elle  fut  tres-vive  et  tres-gaie.  Sa 
conversation  etait  d'un  grand  charme  ;  tres  spirituelle,  et  en 
meme  temps  tres-solide  ;  elle  etait  fort  instruite  comme  la 
suite  le  prouva.   A  Paris  Madame  Austin  avait  un  salon  qu'elle 

18 


REMINISCENCES  19 

tenait  a  merveille  ;  comme  elle  n'avait  pas  de  fortune,  c'etait 
I'esprit  seul  qui  faisait  I'attrait  et  I'ornement  de  la  maison. 
Elle  ne  pouvait  offrir  a  sa  societe,  quelque  distinguee  qu'elle 
fut,  qu'une  modeste  tasse  de  the.  Mais  tout  ce  qu'il  y  avait 
d'eminent  parmis  les  etrangers  de  passage  a  Paris  tenaient  a 
I'honneur  d'etre  regu  dans  cet  humble  appartement,  dont 
I'intelligence  seule  faisait  tous  les  frais.  Les  Frangais  les  plus 
illustres  dans  le  parti  conservateur  et  liberal,  s'y  donnaient 
rendezvous,  et  grace  a  la  maitresse  de  la  maison  les  opinions 
les  plus  diverses  s'y  rencontraient  au  profit  de  tous,  et  sans 
se  heurter.  Le  salon  de  Madame  Austin  etait  un  centre  ou  se 
rencontraient  la  France,  I'Angleterre,  I'Allemagne,  I'ltalie, 
pour  se  connaitre  et  se  mieux  apprecier  reciproquement. 
Madame  Austin  parlait  les  quatres  langues.  Un  grand  service 
que'lle  m'a  rendu  fut  de  me  faire  connaitre  I'Angleterre. 
En  1840  elle  m'avait  trouve  imbu  de  tous  les  prejuges  inter- 
nationaux  si  f  acheux  de  part  et  d'autre  ;  quand  je  fus  plus 
libre  avec  elle,  elle  m'en  fit  rougir,  et  elle  me  demanda,  pour  me 
guerir  de  cette  sottise,  de  venir  visiter  I'Angleterre.  En  1849 
je  suis  venu  a  Weybridge  pour  la  premiere  fois,  ou  j'ai  ete 
re9u  par  une  charmante  petite  fille  qui  m'a  mene  sur-le-champ 
voir  les  jolies  fleurs  qu'elle  cultivait  de  ses  mains  dans  un  petit 
jardin.  '  All  my  own  '  me  disait-elle  avec  fierte.  Ma  guerison 
fut  rapide,  je  reviens  charme  de  I'Angleterre  et  plein  d'ad- 
miration.  Madame  Austin  m'a  presente  chez  quelques  per- 
sonnages,  entre  autres  les  Miss  Berry,  qui  etaient  alors  fort 
agees,  fort  spirituelles,  et  jouissant  vivement  de  la  conversation 
d'un  Frangais  qui  leur  rappellait,  surtout  par  sa  prononciation, 
les  societes  du  dixhuitieme  siecle  ou  elles  avaient  brille  dans 
leur  jeunesse. 

Votre  affectione 

B.  St.  Hilaire." 

My  grandmother  said  she  began  to  realize  she  was  getting 
old,  as  her  grandchild  monopolized  dear  St.  Hilaire,  who 
played  at  ball  with  little  Janet  in  the  garden,  instead  of  talking 
philosophy  with  Mr.  Austin  and  politics  with  her.  The  other 
friend  was  George  Meredith,  "  my  Poet,"  as  I  always  called 


20  THE   FOURTH    GENERATION 

him.  We  knew  him  through  Mr.  Peacock,  whose  novels  my 
mother  greatly  admired,  and  whose  daughter  Meredith  had 
married.  I  sometimes  went  to  play  with  her  little  girl  by  her 
first  husband,  and  my  Poet  used  to  take  me  home,  often 
perched  on  his  shoulder,  telling  me  fairy  tales  all  the  way. 
He  was  at  our  house  one  day  when  M.  de  Haxthausen  came, 
who  impressed  me  deeply.  Not  because  he  was  an  interesting 
man  who  knew  more  about  Russia  and  the  East  than  most 
people,  but  because  he  had  fought  with  the  Queen  of  the 
Serpents,  whose  crown  he  wore  in  a  little  red  silk  bag  that 
hung  round  his  neck  from  a  gold  chain.  With  flashing  eyes  and 
vehement  gestures  he  described  how  he  fought  with  the  Queen. 
"  She  called  her  subjects  to  her  aid  with  loud,  shrill  hisses,  and 
the  earth  became  alive  with  snakes.  I  killed,  and  I  killed,  and 
I  killed,  and  then  ran  for  my  life  out  of  the  burning  hot  gully, 
followed  by  hundreds  of  gliding,  writhing,  venomous  creatures. 
The  owner  of  this  crown  is  the  ruler  and  the  head  of  all  the 
serpents,"  said  he,  proudly  tossing  his  head.  By  dint  of  much 
persuasion  M.  de  Haxthausen  was  induced  to  show  his  treasure, 
which  was  inside  a  small  gold  box  in  the  red  silk  bag.  It  looked 
like  a  miniature  crown  fashioned  out  of  dark  amber,  and  a 
doctor  who  was  present  said,  after  careful  examination,  that 
it  undoubtedly  was  a  bony  excrescence  from  a  reptile,  and 
probably  from  the  head.  M.  de  Haxthausen  was  uneasy  until 
his  crown  was  once  more  safely  hung  round  his  neck,  and  said 
it  had  not  been  taken  out  of  the  gold  box  for  more  than  twenty 
years.  Meredith  never  took  his  eyes  off  M.  de  Haxthausen 
while  he  told  his  weird  tale,  and  when  next  he  brought  me 
home  he  told  me  a  marvellous  story  about  the  Queen  of  the 
Serpents,  which  was  afterwards  developed  into  Bhanavar 
the  Beautiful  in  The  Shaving  of  Shagfat.  I  think  my  mother 
instilled  her  love  for  the  Arabian  Nights  into  my  Poet. 

The  cottage  at  Weybridge  was  cold  and  damp,  and  our  dear 
Hatty  fell  ill  in  the  autumn.  The  doctor  ordered  leeches  to 
be  applied  to  his  chest,  and  my  mother  told  the  maid  how  to 
put  them  on.  She  answered  with  a  toss  of  her  head  :  "  Lawks, 
my  lady,  I  could  not  touch  either  of  'em."  I  can  see  now  the 
look  of  pitying  scorn  with  which  my  mother  turned  from  the 


REMINISCENCES  21 

girl,  who  had  but  lately  entered  our  service,  which  softened 
into  deep  affection  as  she  bent  over  Hatty,  and  with  her 
white  hands  placed  the  leeches  on  his  black  chest.  He  died  in 
my  father's  arms  in  London  on  Christmas  Day,  1 850,  from 
congestion  of  the  lungs,  and  left  a  great  void,  particularly  in 
my  young  life.  I  always  attributed  my  mother's  delicate 
health  to  the  repeated  colds  she  caught  at  Weybridge. 

My  grandfather  I  held  in  great  admiration  mixed  with  awe. 
He  was  remarkably  handsome,  with  splendid  eyes  and  a  very 
erect  carriage.  Born  in  1790  he  entered  the  army  before  he 
was  sixteen,  and  served  under  Lord  William  Bentinck  in  Sicily. 
In  18 12  he  resigned  his  commission  at  the  request  of  his 
parents,  after  the  death  of  his  second  brother  at  sea,  and 
studied  law.  In  1818  he  was  called  to  the  Bar.  Lord  Brougham, 
Sir  John  Romilly,  and  his  great  friend,  Sir  William  Erie, 
told  me  in  later  days  that  his  instructor  and  fellow-students, 
astonished  by  the  force  and  clearness  of  his  mind,  his  retentive 
memory,  and  the  extraordinary  vigour  and  precision  of  his 
language,  foretold  for  him  the  highest  place  in  the  profession. 
All  these  bright  prospects  of  success  were,  however,  shattered 
by  ill-health,  chiefly  caused  by  what  Lord  Brougham,  in  an 
article  in  the  Laza  Magazine  (i860)  aptly  calls  "  the  insatiable 
demands  which  he  made  upon  himself  in  striving  after  a 
degree  of  excellence  unattainable  in  those  who  have  to  keep 
pace  with  the  current  of  human  affairs."  The  last  twelve,  and 
probably  the  happiest,  years  of  his  life,  were  passed  at  Wey- 
bridge. Sometimes  he  took  me  out  walking  with  him,  and  in 
his  rich,  musical  voice  would  impress  upon  me  that  it  was  most 
important  to  think  distinctly,  to  speak  my  thoughts  with 
meaning,  and,  above  all,  never  to  tell  a  lie.  I  learnt  to  reverence 
the  names  of  Burke  and  Bentham  long  before  I  knew  who  they 
were  ;  indeed  I  think  I  connected  them  in  some  dim  way  with 
the  Bible.  When  my  grandfather  was  launched  in  a  discussion, 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  stop  him.  I  remember  one  day 
being  sent  with  a  message  to  him  from  my  mother  when  Dr. 
Whewell  was  at  Weybridge.  For  a  time  I  listened,  but  at 
length  my  patience  was  exhausted.  "  But,  grandpapa,  grand- 
papa, I   can't   get   in    a  word.     Do   stop   him,"  I  said  to  the 


22  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Master  of  Trinity.  After  that  I  was  forbidden  to  enter  the 
study  unless  specially  invited  to  go  in,  and  then  I  was  not  to 
interrupt. 

My  grandfather's  magnificent  eyes,  which  my  mother 
inherited,  must  have  come  from  his  grandmother  who  had 
gipsy  blood  in  her  veins.  His  father,  Jonathan  Austin,  a  miller 
and  corn  merchant,  who  had  mills  in  Suffolk  and  Essex,  married 
the  only  daughter  of  a  small  gentleman  farmer,  or  yeoman. 
Well  educated,  gently  nurtured,  and  possessed  of  exceptional 
abilities,  she  inspired  her  husband  with  her  love  for  learning. 
His  education  had  been  neglected,  but  he  was  fond  of  reading 
and  acquired  a  great  deal  of  knowledge  both  of  history  and 
political  economy.  He  had  a  very  exact  mind,  and  particularly 
disliked  any  kind  of  exaggeration.  To  an  acute  sense  of  fun 
was  joined  considerable  enthusiasm,  and  a  touching  story 
or  a  noble  action  moved  him  deeply.  He  was  determined  that 
his  sons  should  not  be  handicapped  as  he  had  been,  and  gave 
them  all  a  first-rate  education.  Even  as  quite  an  old  man,  he 
was  handsome,  with  silver-white  hair.  I  dimly  recollect  his 
coming  to  Queen  Square  and  sitting  in  the  dining-room, 
smoking  a  long  clay  pipe.  I  do  not  think  he  was  quite  at  his 
ease  with  a  granddaughter  who  was  addressed  as  "  My  Lady." 
His  wife  was  deeply  religious,  though  in  no  narrow  way. 
She  was  charitable  and  helpful,  but  a  strong  tinge  of  melan- 
choly, probably  increased  by  delicate  health  and  fits  of  nervous 
depression,  overshadowed  her  whole  life.  This  she  transmitted 
to  her  children — to  my  grandfather  in  particular,  tempered 
by  the  Austin  family  characteristic  of  wit  and  fun.  My 
grandfather  was  eloquent,  even  as  a  child,  and  turned  it  to 
better  advantage  than  in  after  life,  for  he  used  to  sit  by  his 
father  at  dinner,  and  so  engage  him  in  talk  that  the  worthy 
miller  never  noticed  that  John  drank  up  his  glass  of  beer. 

My  grandmother  was  descended  from  Dr.  John  Taylor, 
who  was  Presbyterian  minister  at  Norwich  in  1733.  He  is 
known  by  his  Hebrew  Concordance,  for  which  the  University 
of  Glasgow  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  D.D.  His  son 
Richard  married  Margaret  Meadows,  and  on  his  death  their 
second  son,  John,  was  taken  away  from  school  at  twelve  years 


REMINISCENCES  23 

of  age  to  help  his  mother  in  the  business.  In  1777  John  Taylor 
married  Susannah  Cook,  a  clever,  energetic,  and  handsome 
woman,  with  considerable  conversational  powers,  and  very 
decided  liberal  opinions.  An  aunt  of  the  late  Miss  Florence 
Nightingale  said  to  the  late  Henry  Reeve  :  "  Don't  I  remember 
your  glorious  grandmother  dancing  round  the  tree  of  liberty 
at  Norwich  with  Dr.  Parr."  Her  youngest  child,  Sarah,  born 
in  1793,  received  a  thorough  education  which  served  her  well 
in  after  life.  Latin,  French,  German,  and  Italian  she  learned 
as  a  child,  and  her  reading  between  leaving  school  and  her 
marriage  with  John  Austin,  in  18 19,  would  alarm  most  young 
ladies  of  the  present  day.^ 

Mrs.  Austin  inherited  her  mother's  beauty,  energy,  and 
talent,  united  to  a  marvellous  capacity  for  work.  She  wrote 
well  and  forcibly ;  her  translation  of  Ranke's  History  of  the  Popes 
is  still  a  standard  work,  while  the  Story  without  an  End  has  been 
the  delight  of  several  generations  of  small  folk.  Carlyle  called 
her  :  "  Sunlight  through  waste  weltering  chaos  "  ;  Sir  James 
Stephen,  "  My  great  ally  "  ;  Sydney  Smith,  "  Dear,  Wise,  and 
Fair "  ;  Michel  Chevalier,  "  La  petite  Mere  du  genre 
humain  "  ;  the  Italian  exiles,  "  La  nostra  bella  Santa  Prote- 
trice."  Deeply  interested  in  popular  education,  she  corre- 
sponded about  it  with  Sir  WilHam  Hamilton,  Robert  Southey, 
Victor  Cousin,  whose  reports  on  the  state  of  public  education 
in  Prussia  she  translated,  and  with  many  learned  German 
professors  whose  acquaintance  she  made  at  Bonn.  She  wrote 
to  Mr.  Gladstone  in  1853,  urging  him  to  "  give  us  a  scheme 
for  burgher  schools,  to  which  the  people  shall  pay  a  good  price, 
and  have  in  return  as  much  as  their  money  can  procure."  I 
suppose  it  was  her  strenuous  advocacy  of  popular  education 
that  caused  Lord  John  Russell  to  recommend  the  Queen  to 
grant  her  a  pension  of  ^£100  a  year  on  the  civil  list  in  1849. 
Mrs.  Austin  wrote  diligently  for  the  Edinburgh  Review,  the 
AthencBum,  and  many  periodicals,  and  was  an  admirable 
correspondent  as  the  bundles  of  letters  in  my  possession  to 
her  French,  German,  Italian,  and  English  friends  testify. 

On  one  occasion,  when  Mrs.  Austin  was  staying  in  Queen 

^  Sec  my  Tiiree  Generations  of  Englisk  l-f^^mcn  (second  edition,  Fiilicr  Unwiii),  icJ'Jj. 


24  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Square,  Leopold  Ranke  came  to  luncheon.  The  little  man 
walked  up  and  down  the  drawing-room,  talking  vehemently 
in  English,  German,  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish  all  mixed 
up  together,  with  now  and  then  a  Latin  quotation.  It  wa? 
almost  impossible  to  follow  him,  as  he  talked  very  fast,  and 
when  by  chance  he  did  ask  a  question  he  rarely  waited  for  an 
answer.  My  grandmother  took  me  to  see  "  The  Historian," 
as  Mr.  Grote  was  called  by  his  friends.  I  was  rather  taken 
aback  when  the  stately,  courteous  old  gentleman,  on  being 
told  "  This  is  my  little  Janet,"  took  my  small  hand  in  both 
his,  and  with  a  bow,  said  :  "  I  am  indeed  delighted  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Austin's  granddaughter  and  Lucie's 
daughter."  Mrs.  Grote  (known  as  Grota)  was  not  nearly  so 
alarming,  but  I  got  into  disgrace  one  day  when  she  showed  me 
a  portrait  of  herself  as  a  young  woman,  by  resolutely  refusing 
to  believe  that  she  had  ever  looked  like  it.  She  was  very  proud 
of  her  small  feet,  and  wore  short  dresses  to  show  them. 

It  was,  I  think,  early  in  1 85 1  that  I  went  for  the  first  time 
to  a  theatre.  Lord  Lansdowne  had  sent  my  mother  a  box 
for  the  last  appearance  of  Macready  as  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
and  begged  that  Janet  might  be  taken  to  see  the  great  actor. 
The  impression  he  made  upon  me  was  so  strong  that  I  can 
still  call  up  before  me  the  tall,  rather  gaunt  figure  in  flowing 
red   robes,   and  hear  the   fine  voice   declaiming  the   famous 

lines  : — 

"  Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness." 

Of  the  other  personages  in  the  play  I  remember  absolutely 
nothing. 

Mrs.  Opie,  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Austin's  mother,  asked  my 
grandmother  and  myself  to  lunch  ;  the  note  was  given  to  me 
to  keep  as  a  memento. 

Mrs.  Opie  to  Mrs.  Justin. 

"  My  dear  Friend, 

As  mornings  are  the  best  time  of  day  for  me  to  receive 
visitors,  I  do  most  earnestly  request  that  thou  and  dear  Fanny 
M.  and  thy  Janet  Gordon  will  do  me  th?  favour  to  eat  a  hot 


JANET    DUFF   GORDON". 


REMINISCENCES  25 

luncheon  with  me  to-morrow,  the  second  of  the  month,  or  the 
next  day,  if  it  suit  thee  better.  I  hope  thou  art  not  going 
*  further  afield  '  as  yet,  though,  I  am  sure,  thou  canst  not  be 
spared  from  home  long. 

Believe  me  affectionately  thine, 

The  lame  and  lazy, 

Amelia  Opie. 

Castle  Meadow,  loth  month,  ist,  185!. 

Please  do  not  suppose  that  /,  in  my  vanity,  call  Castle 
Meadow,  what  was,  and  is.  Castle  Ditches.  Before  I  came 
hither  '  Castle  Meadow  '  in  large  letters  was  painted  on  a 
board,  and  hung  up  at  the  entrance  of  this  lane — and  there 
it  is  now.  But  '  What's  in  a  name  ? '  Louis  Napoleon  would 
say  :  '  A  great  deal.'  " 

Mrs.  Opie  I  called  my  fairy  godmother,  and  invented 
fairy  tales  about  her,  in  which  flashes  of  light  and  rainbows 
played  a  great  part.  Years  afterwards,  whenever  I  thought 
of  the  charming,  soft-voiced  and  mannered,  old  lady,  in  her 
pretty,  quaint  dress,  visions  of  curious  rays  of  light  were 
connected  with  her.  Not  many  years  ago  I  read  Miss  Bright- 
well's  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Opie,  and  there  found  that  she  had  a 
great  love  for  prisms.  Then  I  understood  why  I  had  associated 
her  with  rainbows. 

Mr.  Babbage  was  another  of  our  friends  whom  I  was  taken 
to  see.  He  showed  us  his  calculating  machine,  and  was  mightily 
amused  by  my  emphatic  approval.  Sums  were  always  my 
abomination,  and  I  begged  hard  to  be  allowed  to  take  the 
machine  home.  He  also  showed  us  a  wonderful  automaton 
figure,  made,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  of  silver.  This  he  called 
his  wife,  and  I  was  rather  afraid  of  the  silent  lady,  who  moved 
her  arms  and  her  head  in  a  graceful,  but  weird  manner.  Mr. 
Babbage  habitually  looked  very  sad,  and  when  my  grand- 
mother told  me  one  day  the  story  of  Pygmalion  I  insisted  that 
it  was  the  story  of  Mr.  Babbage  and  his  wife,  whom  he  was 
trying  in  vain  to  call  to  life.  He  and  my  father  quite  agreed 
on  one  subject,  dislike  of  music,  "  a  horrid  noise  which  stops 
conversation." 


26  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

My  great-uncle,  Charles  Austin,  then  in  the  zenith  of  his 
extraordinary  success  at  the  Parliamentary  bar,  occasionally 
dropped  in  to  dinner  at  Queen  Square.  Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill 
describes  him  better  than  I  can.  "  The  effect  he  produced 
on  his  Cambridge  contemporaries  deserves  to  be  accounted 
an  historical  event  ;  for  to  it  may  in  part  be  traced  the  ten- 
dency towards  Liberalism  in  general,  and  the  Benthamic  and 
politico-economic  form  of  it  in  particular,  vi'hich  showed  itself 
in  a  portion  of  the  more  active-minded  young  men  of  the  higher 
classes  from  this  time  to  1830.  The  Union  Debating  Society, 
at  that  time  at  the  height  of  its  reputation,  was  an  arena 
where  what  were  then  thought  extreme  opinions,  in  politics 
and  philosophy,  were  weekly  asserted,  face  to  face  with  their 
opposites,  before  aiidiences  consisting  of  the  elite  of  the  Cam- 
bridge youth  ;  and  though  many  persons  afterwards  of  more 
or  less  note  (of  whom  Lord  Macaulay  is  the  most  celebrated) 
gained  their  first  oratorical  laurels  in  those  debates,  the  really 
influential  mind  among  those  intellectual  gladiators  was 
Charles  Austin.  He  continued,  after  leaving  the  University, 
to  be,  by  his  conversation  and  personal  ascendancy,  a  leader 
among  the  same  class  of  young  men  who  had  been  his  associates 
there.  .  .  .  He  was  a  man  who  never  failed  to  impress  greatly 
those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  even  when  their  opinions 
were  the  very  reverse  of  his.  The  impression  he  gave  was 
that  of  boundless  strength,  together  with  talents  which, 
combined  with  such  apparent  force  of  will  and  character, 
seemed  capable  of  dominating  the  world,  ...  It  is  seldom 
that  men  produce  so  great  an  immediate  effect  by  speech, 
unless  they,  in  some  degree,  lay  themselves  out  for  it  ;  and  he 
did  this  in  no  ordinary  degree.  He  loved  to  strike,  and  even 
to  startle.  He  knew  that  decision  is  the  greatest  element  of 
effect,  and  he  uttered  his  opinions  with  all  the  decision  he  could 
throw  into  them,  never  so  well  pleased  as  when  he  astonished 
any  one  by  their  audacity.  .  .  .  He  presented  the  Benthamic 
doctrines  in  the  most  startling  form  of  which  they  were 
susceptible,  exaggerating  everything  in  them  which  tended 
to  consequences  offensive  to  any  one's  preconceived  feelings. 
All  which  he  defended  with  such  verve  and  vivacity,  and  carried 


REMINISCENCES  27 

off  by  a  manner  so  agreeable  as  well  as  forcible,  that  he  always 
either  came  off  victor,  or  divided  the  honours  of  the  field." ^ 
The  following  characteristic  note  of  Charles  Austin's,  and 
a  skit  on  Jeremy  Bentham,  I  found  among  old  papers  of  my 
grandmother  : — 

"  Specimen  of  different  answers  by  Mr.  Southern's  servant 
to  the  question  Is  Mr.  Southern  at  home  ? 
Sir,  he  is  not  up. 
He  is  unwell. 

He  is  engaged,  or  particularly  engaged. 
Yes,    sir,   but    he    has    a   gentleman    with    him.     N.B. — 
Gentleman  is  French  for  lady. 

He  is  gone  out,  or  he  is  just  gone  out.  He  is  in  the  country. 
In  short,  he  is  not  at  home  ;  and  as  this,  in  all  human  proba- 
bility, will  be  the  case  now,  I  leave  this  note  just  to  ask  about 
the  proof  sheets  of  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Mess,  and  to  ask  you, 
Mr.  Southern,  to  procure  a  copy  of  Scarron's  Roman  Comique, 
on  which  my  brother  George  is  writing  a  paper. 

Yours  faithfully, 

C.  Austin. 
Or  rather. 

Never  See  Austin." 

"A   CARD. 

ORIGINAL    IDEA   WAREHOUSE, 

QUEEN     SQUARE,    WESTMINSTER. 

Jeremy  Bentham,  Codifer,  and  Legislator  to  the  French 
and  Spanish  nations,  and  the  world  in  general,  condescendingly 
informs  mankind  and  Reformists  in  particular,  that  he  con- 
tinues to  carry  on  business  as  usual  at  his  hermitage,  West- 
minster,/or  reputation  only.  Executes  orders  with  everything 
but  despatch.  All  sorts  of  PoHtical  Plans,  Projects,  and 
Schemes  built.  Old  Plans  fresh  cast,  corrected,  and  remodelled 
equal  to  new.  Words  coined,  Motives  analysed.  Intrinsic 
Values    examined,    and    Moral    Prejudices    decomposed    and 

1  AutiibiogrupJty,  John  Stiurt  Mill,  76  ct  scq. 


28  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

carefully  weighed.  Jeremy  Bentham  will  not  be  answerable 
for  any  articles  unless  bearing  the  unequivocal  marks  of  his 
workmanship  ;  Originality,  Unconsecutiveness,  Ruggedness, 
and  Elaborate  Classification.    All  others  are  counterfeit. 

N.B. — No  credit  given  (but  as  much  taken  as  can  be 
obtained)." 

The  one  of  our  many  visitors  to  Queen  Square  whom  I 
cordially  disliked  was  Mr.  Carlyle.  He  was  a  great  friend  of 
Mrs.  Austin's,  and  professed  to  admire  Lucykin,  as  he  called 
my  mother,  very  much.  One  afternoon  he  had  a  discussion 
with  her  on  German  literature,  and  her  wonderful  eloquence 
and  fire  prevailing,  Carlyle  lost  his  temper  and  burst  forth 
in  his  Scotch  tongue  :  "  You're  just  a  windbag,  Lucie  ;  you're 
just  a  windbag."  I  had  been  listening  with  all  my  ears  as  my 
grandmother  always  spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  about  him  ; 
but  furious  at  my  mother  being,  as  I  thought,  "  called  names  " 
by  so  uncouth  a  man,  I  interrupted,  and  exclaimed  :  "  My 
papa  says  men  should  be  civil  to  women."  For  which  pert 
remark  I  v/as  reproved  by  my  mother.  Mr.  Carlyle,  however, 
was  not  offended,  and  only  observed  :  "  Lucykin,  that  child 
of  yours  has  an  eye  for  an  inference."  I  did  not  see  him  again 
for  some  years,  as  in  1851  my  father  took  a  house  at  Esher  and 
we  left  London  for  good.  My  delight  was  great  as  I  was  given 
a  pony  which  I  named  Eothen,  after  our  dear  friend  King- 
lake. 

Our  house  at  Esher,  christened  by  acclamation  "  The  Gordon 
Arms,"  was  much  frequented  during  the  great  Exhibition 
by  French  and  German  visitors.  All  were  unanimous  in  praise 
of  Paxton's  glass  palace,  of  which  it  was  reported  that  he  drew 
the  designs  in  a  fortnight.  Henry  W.  Phillips,  the  artist, 
as  kind  as  he  was  handsome,  took  me  to  see  it,  as  my  mother 
was  not  well  and  my  father  very  busy. 

I  remember  nothing  distinctly  save  a  big  fountain,  and  that 
I  was  sadly  perplexed  by  the  many  foreign  countries  whose 
products  we  saw  and  of  whose  names  I  was  ignorant.  Phillips 
always  prided  himself  on  his  talent  for  explaining,  and  used 
it  to  such  good  purpose  that  I  was  utterly  bewildered,  and  was 


REMINISCENCES  29 

laughed  at  and  called  a  little  goose  when  I  tried  to  describe 
to  my  mother  what  I  had  seen. 

The  vision  of  a  golden  age  of  peace,  which  was  to  follow 
the  Exhibition,  was  shattered  by  the  news  in  December  of 
the  Coup  d'ktat.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire,  Vhonnete  homme  de 
la  France,  as  he  was  called,  with  many  of  his  colleagues  was 
imprisoned  in  Mazas  for  signing  an  Act  proclaiming  the  fall 
of  the  President.  He  had  thrown  himself  heart  and  soul 
into  the  revolution  of  1848,  in  spite  of  his  friend  Victor 
Cousin's  grave  doubts  as  to  its  success  ;  and  for  some  time 
thought  Louis  Napoleon  judicious  and  honest,  and  took  his 
protestations  of  fidelity  to  the  Republic  au  serieux. 

He  wrote  to  my  grandmother  : — 

M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Mrs.  Austin. 

Paris,  4  Decembre,  1851. 

"  Madame, 

Votre  excellente  lettre  m'arrive  au  moment  meme  ou 
je  sors  de  la  prison  Mazas  ou  j'etais  renferme  avec  bon 
nombre  de  mes  collegues  pour  avoir  signe  I'acte  de  de- 
cheance  du  President.  Personnellement  il  ne  m'est  rien  arrive 
de  grave.  Je  quitte  Cousin  qui  est  retourne  a  la  Sorbonne, 
apr^s  avoir  vainement  essaye  avec  moi  de  passer  les  ponts 
pour  aller  chez  Barrot.  On  se  bat  dans  tout  Paris.  En  voyant 
les  actes,  vous  comprendrez  toute  la  violence  de  la  lutte. 

Je  suis  bien  touche  de  vos  offres,  et  je  vous  assure  qu'un 
sejour  a  Weybridge  me  tente  beaucoup  ;  mais  vous  le  savez, 
c'est  a  une  seule  condition,  c'est  que  ma  pauvre  patrie  sera 
tranquille.  Autrement  je  veux  souffrir,  et  au  besoin  mourir 
avec  elle. 

Tout  a  vous  de  coeur 

By.  St.  Hilaire. 

Bien  des  amities  a  tout  le  monde. 

P.S. — 5  Decetnbre,  la  lutte  continue." 

The  following  year,  rather  than  submit  to  the  humiliation 
of  taking  the  oath,   St.   Hilaire   resigned  his   chair  and  the 


30  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

administration  of  the  College  de  France,  and  retired  to  a  small 
labourer's  cottage  at  Meaux,  where  he  worked  hard  as  a  market 
gardener.  He  was  too  poor  to  think  of  coming  over  to  Wey- 
bridge,  but  he  sent  my  grandmother  some  plants  of  sorrel 
grown  by  him,  a  vegetable  then  almost  unknown  in  England. 
On  the  death  of  M.  Eugene  Burnouf,  the  Oriental  scholar, 
the  administration  of  the  Journal  des  Savants  appointed  St. 
Hilaire  to  the  vacant  place  on  the  staff,  he  having  written  on 
Sanscrit  philosophy.  The  pay  was  small,  but  it  enabled  him 
to  eat  meat  occasionally  with  his  vegetables. 

1852  began  sadly.  In  January  the  West  Indian  mail  steamer 
Amazon  was  burnt  at  sea.  My  mother's  friend,  Eliot  War- 
burton  (author  of  The  Crescent  and  the  Cross)  was  on  board. 
He  stood  by  the  captain  to  the  last,  and  went  down  with  him. 
Years  afterwards  my  father  received  a  portrait  of  my  mother 
done  by  a  schoolgirl  friend,  which  Warburton  had  with  him, 
and  which  he  consigned  to  a  woman  as  he  helped  her  into  a 
boat  off  the  burning  ship,  begging  her  to  send  it  to  Sir  Alexan- 
der Duff  Gordon  in  London.  She  forgot  the  name,  and  on  the 
back  of  the  drawing  were  only  the  words,  "  Lucie  Austin." 
It  was  not  until  after  my  mother's  death,  in  1869,  that  the 
little  picture  came  from  the  West  Indies.  Someone  told  the 
woman  that  Lucie  Austin  had  become  Lady  Duff  Gordon, 
and  gave  her  my  father's  address. 

In  the  summer  of  the  same  year  Henry  Phillips  slipped  down 
the  steps  at  Waterloo  Station  and  broke  his  kneecap.  He  was 
like  a  brother  to  my  parents,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  be  moved 
came  to  Esher  and  stayed  until  his  knee  was  well.  He 
then  painted  a  portrait  of  my  mother,  the  only  one  that  is 
really  like  her,  although  it  does  not  do  her  justice.  The  sus- 
pension lamp  was  taken  down,  and  under  Phillips's  direction 
an  ingenious  system  of  pulleys  and  cords  was  arranged  to 
hang  the  canvas  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  paint  while  lying 
down. 

The  end  of  the  year  was  saddened  by  the  death  of  Miss  Berry, 
on  the  20th  November,  just  ten  months  after  her  sister  Agnes. 
With  her  was  broken  the  last  link  with  a  great  literary  period. 
On  my  ninth  birthday  she  gave  me  a  copy  of  Pope's  poems. 


REMINISCENCES  31 

"  Learn  his  Essays  by  heart,  my  Httle  friend,"  she  said  ;  "  they 
will  improve  your  mind  and  your  English."  I  obeyed  her, 
and  Pope  has  ever  remained  one  of  my  favourite  authors, 
despite  the  rather  contemptuous  wonder  of  the  present 
generation,  who  prefer  the  "  minor  poets." 


CHAPTER   III 

OUR  house  at  Esher  was,  I  believe,  once  an  inn  with  a 
cottage  close  by,  which  had  been  connected  together 
by  tw'o  L-shaped  rooms,  the  dining-room  on  the 
ground  floor,  the  drawing-room  above.  An  old- 
fashioned  garden  sloped  up  to  the  palings  of  Claremont  Park,  and 
was  indeed  cut  out  of  it.  Magnificent  beech  trees  shaded  the 
upper  walks,  and  on  the  lawn  was  a  fine  old  mulberry  tree,  in  the 
branches  of  w^hich  I  often  sat.  One  afternoon  I  heard  the 
well-known  voice  of  Lord  Somers  :  "  Come  down,  Janet  ; 
here  is  the  man  who  dug  up  those  big  beasts  you  saw  in  the 
British  Museum,  and  he  is  called  Mr.  Bull."  Mr.  A.  H. 
Layard  [afterwards  Sir  Henry]  was  known  for  many  years 
by  his  intimate  friends  by  that  name.  Never  had  a  child  a 
kinder  or  a  better  friend  and  adviser.  The  Eastern  question 
was  "  in  the  air  "  then,  the  weakness  of  Lord  Aberdeen  and 
the  bad  temper  of  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe  were  deplored, 
and  one  afternoon  under  the  mulberry  tree  there  was  a  great 
discussion.  Mowbray  Morris  maintained  that  Lord  Aberdeen 
would  not  go  to  war,  adding  that  he  had  said  so  to  Delane, 
while  Lord  Clanricarde  declared  that  he  would  drift  into 
what  he  wished  to  avoid,  his  language  being  calculated  to 
encourage  the  Czar  to  reject  all  attempts  at  a  settlement. 

Mrs.  Austin  told  us  one  day  that  Lord  Brougham,  whom 
she  had  seen  in  London  the  day  after  Mr.  Gladstone's  speech 
on  the  Budget  in  1853,  said  to  her  :  "  It  was  the  first  time 
I  put  my  foot  in  the  House  since  I  ceased  to  be  its  master 
(i.e.  was  made  a  peer) ;  Monteagle  w-as  sitting  behind  me, 
and  worried  me  so  with  his  remarks  that  I  hushed  him  down." 
Adding  that  the  speech  was  so  fine,  that  when  he  went  home  at 
four  in  the  morning  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to  express  his 
admiration,  and  took  it  to  the  post  before  he  went  to  bed. 

32 


REMINISCENCES  33 

My  parents  suddenly  realized  that  I  knew  little  else  but 
how  to  saddle  a  horse  and  how  to  ride  him,  and  an  accom- 
plished young  lady,  Fraulein  von  Zeschau,  daughter  of  a 
retired  major  of  the  Saxon  army,  who  wished  to  see  England, 
came  as  my  governess  and  companion,  chiefly  to  teach  me 
German.  As  I  made  small  progress,  it  was  arranged  that  she 
should  take  me  to  Dresden,  where  I  was  to  go  to  school. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  utter  misery  of  the  fortnight  I  spent 
at  that  horrible  place.  Two  dirty  Polish  girls  slept  in  the  same 
room  with  me,  and  every  day  a  string  of  dejected  girls  went 
out  a  dreary  walk.  I  became  ill,  and  Fraulein  von  Zeschau 
took  me  away  to  her  parents'  house,  where  I  soon  became  one 
of  the  family,  and  was  comparatively  happy.  Every  morning 
I  went  to  a  day-school  in  the  same  house,  but  the  mistress 
did  not  like  me  ;  she  said  I  taught  the  girls  boys'  games  during 
the  hour  of  recreation  in  the  small  garden,  and  was  too  in- 
dependent and  not  respectful  enough.  For  the  first  time  I 
realized  that  my  grandmother  Austin  was  a  well-known 
woman.  The  memory  of  "  die  Austin  "  was  still  fresh  in 
Dresden,  where  the  Prime  Minister,  Herr  von  Liithichau, 
and  his  wife  had  been  her  intimate  friends,  as  well  as  various 
learned  professors,  particularly  jurists,  who  still  talked  of 
my  grandfather's  learning,  and  still  more  of  his  wife's  beauty. 
They  had  also  known  King  John  and  Queen  Amelie.  Their 
Majesties  sent  for  me,  and  were  very  gracious,  asking  me  to 
tea  with  the  princesses,  and  occasionally  sending  me  the  key 
of  the  smaller  Court  box  at  the  Hof  Theater.  I  was,  however, 
very  glad  when  the  following  year  my  German  was  declared 
to  be  excellent,  and  Fraulein  von  Zeschau  and  I  went  back  tc 
Esher. 

One  day  Tom  Taylor  brought  M.  Vivier,  the  famous  horn- 
player  and  wit,  or  xd^thtr  farceur,  to  lunch.  After  a  couple  of 
hours  he  declared  we  were  such  pleasant  people  that,  with 
our  permission,  he  would  stay  for  a  few  days.  He  remained 
nearly  three  weeks  (my  father  lending  him  shirts),  and  laughter 
resounded  from  morning  till  night.  Vivier  was  a  very  clever 
ventriloquist,  and  a  still  better  mimic.  Though  he  knew  no 
language  save  liis  own,  he  would  stand  at  a  half-open  door  and 


34  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

imitate  to  perfection  quarrels  between  German  students, 
political  discussions  between  Italian  patriots,  and  conversations 
between  English  hommes  serieux,  which  were  extravagantly 
funny.  One  of  his  many  tricks  was  to  blow  his  nose  and  mimic 
the  ringing  of  a  bell.  Then  looking  up  innocently  at  the 
astonished  faces  around,  he  would  say  :  "  Ah,  pardon,  fat 
oublie  de  vous  avertir,  c'est  une  maladie  hereditaire  dans  ma 
jamiller  He  was  very  kind  to  la  fetite  Jeanne,  as  he  always 
called  me,  and  would  lie  on  the  floor  under  the  table  and 
tell  me  long  stories,  which  somehow  or  other  I  understood, 
though  I  knew  very  little  French,  about  frogs,  birds,  flowers, 
fairies,  sea-serpents,  and  mermaids.  At  one  time  his  practical 
jokes  were  the  talk  of  Europe,  and  as  he  was  a  favourite  of 
the  Emperor  Napoleon,  indeed  some  said  he  was  a  cousin, 
if  the  police  did  arrest  him,  he  was  soon  set  at  liberty.  When 
he  wanted  to  travel  he  was  sent  with  secret  despatches  at  the 
Government  expense,  and  the  Emperor  named  him  inspector 
of  mines  at  a  good  salary.  Vivier  was  an  adept  at  blowing 
soap-bubbles.  He  mixed  gum  with  the  soap  and  water,  so 
that  the  bubbles  became  less  liable  to  break,  and  could  be 
blown  of  a  huge  size.  He  did  this  once  in  St.  Petersburg, 
and  declared  that  the  Emperor  Nicholas  was  alarmed,  and 
thought  the  large  iridescent  bubbles  foretold  an  insurrection. 
In  London  Vivier  made  a  bet,  and  won  it,  that  he  would  cause 
a  crowd  to  assemble  in  Piccadilly  and  stare  at  nothing.  Stopping 
short  he  pointed  with  his  stick  to  the  pavement,  bent  down 
and  looked  fixedly  at  the  ground.  People  soon  gathered  round 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  At  last  he  raised  his  eyes,  looked 
astonished,  and  asked  what  on  earth  they  were  staring  at.  In 
Paris  one  line  of  omnibuses  was  known  as  les  omnibus  de  Vivier  ; 
on  them  he  never  paid  his  fare,  as  his  fun  and  jokes  were  such 
a  good  reclame. 

His  power  over  animals  was  extraordinary.  At  Esher  he 
caught  a  young  starling,  and  after  shutting  himself  into  his 
room  for  two  hours  brought  down  the  bird  perfectly  tame^ 
and  so  obedient  that  it  hopped  at  the  word  of  command  from 
one  hand  to  the  other,  and  on  to  the  top  of  his  head.  He 
gave  "  Dick  "  to  me,  and  it  was  a  most  amusing  and  mis- 


REMINISCENCES  35 

chievous  pet  for  many  years.  When  he  left  for  Paris  he  took 
away  a  bantam  cock  he  was  teaching  to  play  cards  in  an  old 
hat-box.  At  Boulogne  the  custom-house  officer  told  him  to 
open  the  box,  so  Vivier  handed  him  the  key  and  gravely  asked  : 
"  Monsieur  a-t-il  fait  son  testament  F  "  Angrily  the  man  de- 
manded what  he  meant,  and  again  ordered  him  to  open  the 
box.  Vivier  then  explained  that  he  was  conveying  a  most 
venomous  snake  to  some  doctor  in  the  interests  of  science, 
"  Passez,  Monsieur"  was  the  curt  answer. 

I  never  heard  Vivier  play  on  the  horn,  but  people  said  it  was 
wonderful,  and  that  he  had  invented  some  way  of  playing  four 
notes  at  once,  so  that  it  sounded  like  four  horns  playing  to- 
gether. He  sang,  with  very  little  voice,  most  charmingly. 
In  London  his  public  career  was  put  an  end  to,  quite  un- 
wittingly, by  the  late  Lord  Houghton  (Monckton  Milnes). 
After  endless  trouble  Vivier  had  been  persuaded  to  give 
three  concerts  ;  at  the  first  Lord  Houghton  blew  his  nose 
(a  war  trumpet,  as  his  friends  will  remember).  This  so  un- 
nerved Vivier  that  he  could  not  go  on,  and  threw  up  his  en- 
gagement. "  Les  Anglais,"  he  used  to  say,  "out  des  nez  terribles, 
celd  vous  fait  Vefet  du  jugement  dernier." 

Talking  of  noises,  my  mother  used  to  tell  a  good  story 
against  our  old  friend  Mr.  Nassau  Senior,  who  liked  music  no 
better  than  my  father.  Once  at  Bowood  Tommy  Moore  had 
been  prevailed  upon  to  sing.  All  the  party  drew  near  to  the 
piano  save  Senior,  who  sat  at  a  small  table  and  began  to  write 
with  a  quill  pen  on  Lord  Lansdowne's  very  ribbed  paper. 
He  was  compiling  an  article  on  statistics,  or  something  of 
that  sort.  Moore  began,  but  he  w^as  so  worried  by  the  per- 
sistent scratch,  scratch,  that  he  stopped  and  looked  round  to 
see  who  was  making  the  odious  noise.  Senior  raised  his  head 
and  said  quite  innocently  :  "  Oh,  you  don't  disturb  me,  I 
assure  you  ;  pray  go  on,  I  rather  like  it." 

When  in  March,  1854,  °^^  cousin,  Sir  George  Cornewall 
Lewis,  succeeded  Mr.  Gladstone  as  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, he  named  my  father  his  private  secretary.  Great  was 
the  rejoicing  at  the  "  Gordon  Arms,"  for  it  was  a  pleasant 
change  for  my  father^  who,  as  one  of  the  senior  clerks  of  the 


36  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Treasury,  always,  with  his  usual  good-nature,  had  done  every- 
one's work.  In  the  summer  Sir  Charles  Trevelyan  took  Lady 
Byron's  house  at  Esher,  which  was  nearly  opposite  ours. 
Lord  Macaulay  had  taken  an  ugly  little  cottage  on  Ditton 
Marsh,  and  often  walked  over  to  see  his  sister.  He  generally 
came  in  to  see  my  mother,  and  I  must  have  tried  his  patience 
severely,  for  as  soon  as  I  heard  his  voice  I  installed  myself  by 
his  knee  and  imperiously  said  :  "  Now  talk."  I  rather  suspect 
my  mother  might  occasionally  have  liked  to  give  a  counter- 
order,  for  she  also  talked  much  and  well ;  but  Macaulay  was 
impossible  to  stop  when  once  launched. 

In  April,  1855,  the  Emperor  Napoleon  came  with  the 
Empress  Eugenie  on  a  visit  to  the  Queen.  They  were  well, 
though  not  enthusiastically,  received.  The  beauty  and  grace  of 
the  Empress  was  admired,  but  everyone  agreed  that  in  manner 
and  carriage  she  could  not  compare  to  our  Queen.  Lord 
Lansdowne  told  us  she  was  evidently  not  at  her  ease,  and 
showed  her  nervousness  at  dinner  by  perpetually  crumbling 
her  bread.  Among  the  various  Napoleonic  stories  that  were 
going  about  was  the  change  in  Prince  Napoleon's  nickname  of 
Plon-plon  into  Craint-plomb,^s  it  was  said  that  he  left  the  Crimea 
quite  unnerved.  Then  it  was  rumoured  that  the  Emperor 
had  determined  to  go  to  the  Crimea  and  lead  his  troops  in 
person  against  Sebastopol,  but  that  the  idea  had  been  given 
up  because  Prince  Napoleon  claimed  the  regency  as  his  right 
during  the  absence  of  the  Emperor,  and  the  ministers  had 
threatened  to  resign  in  a  body  rather  than  serve  under  him. 

On  May  i8th  my  father  took  me  to  see  the  Queen  give 
medals  to  the  invalided  soldiers  and  officers.  The  weather 
was  splendid  and  the  sight  was  extremely  touching.  In  front 
of  the  Horse  Guards  a  platform  had  been  erected  from  whence 
the  Queen  handed  a  medal  to  each  man  as  he  passed  before 
her.  Some  were  on  crutches,  some  had  lost  an  arm,  others 
had  bandages  on  their  heads.  When  Sir  Thomas  Troubridge, 
both  of  whose  legs  had  been  shot  away,  was  wheeled  past  in 
a  bath-chair  and  the  Queen  went  down  the  steps  and  gave 
him  his  medal,  there  was  a  movement  in  the  vast  crowd,  many 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears,   and  something  very  like  a  sob 


REMINISCENCES  37 

echoed  in  the  still  air.  A  few  weeks  later  came  the  news  of 
Lord  Raglan's  death,  and  M,  Guizot,  St.  Hilaire,  and  others 
sent  Mrs,  Austin  extracts  from  letters  of  French  private 
soldiers  for  Lord  Ellesmere,  who  was  writing  some  pamphlet. 
All  extolled  his  courage  and  coolness,  and  many  spoke  of  his 
kindly  manners :  "  //  etait  gentilhomme  jusq'au  bout  des  ongles  " 
was  an  expression  which  often  recurred.  Later,  when  Kinglake 
began  his  History,  I  hated  the  very  name  of  the  Crimea. 
General  Todleben's  book,  Unter  dem  Dopfeladler,  had  been 
sent  to  Eothen,  and  he,  not  knowing  German,  asked  me  to 
translate  it.  Of  course  this  made  me  very  proud,  but  I  found 
the  book  so  dull  and  the  military  terms  so  baffling,  that  only 
affection  for  my  dear  friend  kept  me  at  work.  This  was  the 
first  translation  I  did. 

One  evening  in  June  my  mother  returned  from  Weybridge 
in  very  low  spirits.  The  village  was  echoing  with  the  failure 
of  Dean,  Paul,  Strahan,  and  Co.  We  knew  that  Mrs.  Gore 
was  a  great  friend  of  one  of  the  partners  in  the  bank,  and  had 
placed  the  money  she  made  by  writing  in  his  hands.  Her 
daughter,  brilliant,  fascinating  Cissy  (afterwards  Lady 
Edward  Thynne),  who  rode  splendidly,  sang  French  songs 
like  a  Frenchwoman,  and  danced  to  perfection,  often  came 
to  Esher.  Once  she  brought  two  huge  deerhounds  with  her, 
who  at  once  rushed  into  the  kitchen,  knocked  down  the  cook, 
and  seized  a  saddle  of  mutton.  With  this  they  tore  down  the 
village  street,  followed  by  Cissy's  groom,  shouting  :  "  Hi,  I 
say,  stop  'em  ;  that's  My  Lady's  mutton."  Mrs.  Gore  was 
very  stout,  while  Cissy  had  a  beautiful  figure  and  a  remarkably 
small  waist,  so  they  used  to  be  called  "  Plenty  and  no 
waste" 

In  the  autumn  a  French  friend  of  my  mother's  came  to 
stay  a  few  days  with  us.  He  had  just  come  from  the  Crimea, 
and  almost  his  first  words  were :  "  Within  eighteen  months 
you  will  have  a  rebellion  in  India."  Coming  from  anyone 
else  this  statement  would  have  been  met  with  scornful  laughter, 
but  M.  de  Bammeville  was  so  clever,  had  such  an  extraordinary 
insight  into  character,  and  such  a  level  head,  that  dead  silence 
followed  his  speech.    A  remarkable  linguist,  he  spoke  Russian, 


38  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Polish,  and  Greek  as  well  as  other  modern  languages,  and 
was  well  known  as  a  great  connoisseur  of  art.  Extremely- 
cynical,  with  a  strong  contempt  for  the  weaknesses  of  human 
nature,  he  generally  saw  the  worst,  or  at  all  events  the 
ridiculous  side  of  people,  and  expressed  his  views  in  no 
measured  terms.  At  the  same  time  he  was  a  staunch,  generous 
friend  to  the  few  he  liked,  a  most  interesting  companion 
and  a  good  talker.  M.  de  Bammeville  had  met  in  the  Crimea 
Indian  emissaries  he  had  known  in  Paris  and  London,  and  said 
the  English  officers  abused  the  British  privilege  of  grumbling 
before  them.  "  The  service  had  gone  to  the  dogs.  Our  best 
men  have  perished  in  the  trenches.  The  British  army  no  longer 
exists ;  it  is  composed  of  raw  boys,"  etc.  The  Indians,  who 
had  left  London  deeply  impressed  with  the  power  of  England, 
took  this  wild  talk  for  gospel,  and  when  Bammeville  tried  to 
reason  with  them,  they  answered  that  the  EngHsh  officers 
must  know  better  than  he.  From  several  things  he  heard  he 
was  convinced  that  as  soon  as  these  men  reached  India,  some 
excuse  would  be  found  or  made  for  rebelHng  against  us.  My 
father  was  so  impressed  by  what  Bammeville  said  that  he  re- 
ported it  to  Lord  Palmerston,  who  pooh-poohed  the  whole 
thing  and  declared  it  was  all  nonsense. 

In  January,  1856,  the  news  that  the  Emperor  of  Russia 
had  accepted  the  "  four  points  "  was  received  with  great 
joy  in  France  ;  but  we  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  had  tricked  us,  and  that  peace  had  been 
forced  upon  us  just  as  we  were  getting  into  fighting  trim.  On 
the  1 6th  March  the  Empress  gave  birth  to  a  son.  Paris  was 
illuminated,  but  instead  of  showing  enthusiasm,  the  people 
made  skits  about  the  poor  little  baby.  The  following  was  sent 
to  my  grandmother  as  one  of  the  best  : — 

"  Par  son  pere  Hollandais, 
Par  son  a'leul  Irlandais, 
Par  sa  grand'mere  Ecossais, 
Par  sa  m^re  Aragonais, 
Vous  voyez,  qu'elle  etrange  chance, 
U  ne  manque  au  fils  de  France, 
Qu'une  goutte  de  sang  Fran^ais," 


REMINISCENCES 


39 


There  was  a  congress  at  Paris,  when  England  was  represented 
by  Lord  Clarendon  and  Lord  Cowley,  and  on  the  30th  March 
peace  was  signed. 

It  was  a  happy  year  for  us.  My  father  was  named  Com- 
missioner of  Inland  Revenue,  a  post  which  suited  him  well 
as  he  was  fond  of  travelling  ;  and  every  year  he  was  deputed 
to  go  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  to  Ireland  or  Scotland  to 
inspect  the  subordinate  officers,  and  see  they  did  their  duty 
in  putting  down  ilHcit  stills.  That  part  of  his  work  he  liked 
least,  and  I  suspect  many  a  really  poor  man  got  off  with  but  a 
small  fine. 

For  six  weeks  during  the  winter  I  was  seriously  ill  with 
scarlet  fever,  and,  to  my  grief,  my  mother  cut  off  my  long  hair 
and  kept  it  short  until  I  was  sixteen.  While  in  bed  I  read  all 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels,  which  my  father  brought  down 
from  the  London  Library.  He  was  one  of  the  first  subscribers 
to  the  library  Mrs.  Austin  helped  her  friend  Mr.  Carlyle  to 
found.  As  soon  as  I  was  well  Baron  Marochetti  asked  my  father 
to  let  me  sit  to  him  for  a  statue  he  had  been  commissioned 
to  do  by  the  Queen,  of  the  Princess  Elisabeth,  for  Newport 
church.  I  stayed  for  some  weeks  with  Mr. and  Mrs. Tom  Taylor 
at  Eagle  Lodge,  near  Marochetti's  studio,  and  the  statue  took 
a  long  time,  as  the  Baron  had  not  been  told  the  shape  of  the 
place  destined  for  it.  As  is  known,  the  daughter  of  Charles  I 
died  whilst  reading  her  Bible,  and  Marochetti  made  a  beautiful 
kneeling  figure  with  the  head  bowed  down  on  the  book  and 
one  arm  hanging  over  the  front  of  a  frie-dieu.  When  the 
Queen  came  to  see  it  she  said  it  would  not  do,  as  the  statue 
was  to  go  under  an  arch  and  must  be  lying  down.  So  the  whole 
thing  had  to  be  done  over  again.  I  could  not  have  believed 
that  it  was  so  tiring  to  He  flat  on  one's  back  for  hours,  and, 
in  spite  of  Marochetti's  pleasant  conversation  and  the  kind- 
ness of  the  Baroness,  I  was  much  bored.  William  Millais, 
brother  of  the  Academician,  was  tinting  marble  busts  in  the 
studio,  and  I  was  pressed  into  the  service  to  sit  for  the  colouring 
of  a  head  in  a  large  shell.  A  bust  of  the  Princess  of  Coorg  had 
just  been  painted,  and  it  was  amusing  to  hear  the  remarks  of 
visitors  through  the  half-open  door.     Many  thought  it  like 


40  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Mme.  Tussaud,  others  liked  it.  I  agreed  with  the  latter,  as 
the  sugar  whiteness  of  new  marble  is  to  me  disagreeable. 

Little  Holland  House,  where  I  sometimes  stayed,  was  a 
great  meeting-place,  particularly  on  Sunday  afternoon,  for 
artists,  men  of  letters,  and  the  beauties  of  London  society. 
Tennyson  was  often  there,  and  it  was  funny  to  see  how  the 
fashionable  beauties  waited  upon  him.  One  would  bring  him 
a  cup  of  tea,  another  press  cream  and  sugar  upon  him,  another 
fetch  cakes  or  bread-and-butter.  The  same  adoration,  in  a 
minor  degree,  was  lavished  upon  Sir  Henry  Taylor,  "  Philip 
von  Artevelde,"  as  he  was  called  from  his  play,  which  now 
one  seldom  hears  mentioned.  Mr.  Watts,  "  dear  Signor," 
lived  at  Little  Holland  House  with  the  Prinseps,  and,  like 
all  who  knew  him,  I  loved  him.  He  was  always  good  and  kind 
to  me,  whom  he  had  known  as  a  small  child,  and  many  hours 
did  I  spend  sitting  in  his  studio  watching  those  great  pictures 
grow  under  his  hand.  One  I  remember  interested  me  much, 
as  he  drew  the  figure  first  as  a  skeleton  and  then  put  on  the 
flesh.  I  think  it  was  the  nymph  Echo.  One  day  a  young 
violinist  (I  believe  it  was  Joachim  as  a  lad)  came  to  play  to 
"  Signor,"  who  loved  music.  I  was  sitting  on  the  floor  listen- 
ing intently,  when  "  Signor  "  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder 
and  said :  "  Sit  still,  Janet,  don't  move  for  a  few  minutes." 
He  then  did  the  accompanying  head  of  me. 

The  summer  of  1857  was  extraordinarily  hot,  and  my 
mother's  health  consequently  improved.  The  heat  was 
attributed  to  a  comet,  which,  however,  did  not  make  its 
appearance,  but  people  were  alarmed  by  wild  reports  that 
it  would  collide  with  the  earth.  One  old  lady  in  the  village 
made  her  will,  and  asked  my  father  to  witness  it  for  her. 
She  told  him  she  had  left  all  to  her  nephew  on  the  condition 
that  her  fat  pony  and  two  wheezy  spaniels  should  be  properly 
cared  for.  Why  her  nephew,  the  pony  and  the  dogs,  were  to 
survive  the  destruction  of  the  world  was  not  clear. 

One  day  my  father  came  back  from  London  raving  about 
the  beauty  of  the  Countess  Castiglione,  an  Italian  lady  said 
to  stand  high  in  the  good  graces  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon, 
whom    he   had   seen    at  the  Queen's  ball.     There  was  great 


JANET    DUFF   GORDON. 
By  G.  F.  Watts. 


REMINISCENCES  41 

discussion  in  London,  patriotic  Englishmen  declaring  that 
there  were  many  Englishwomen  handsomer  than  the  fair- 
liaired  Countess.  Lady  Holland  gave  a  tea,  to  which  she 
invited  Countess  Castiglione  and  the  well-known  beauties  of 
London — Lady  Waterford,  Lady  Mary  Craven,  Lady  Somers, 
Miss  Brandling,  Mrs.  Norton,  my  mother,  and  others  whose 
names  I  have  forgotten — and  strife  ran  high  as  to  who 
bore  away  the  palm.  But  all  agreed  that  the  little  son 
of  the  Countess  was  the  loveliest  child  that  had  ever  been 
seen. 

My  cousin  Henry  Reeve,  "  the  Great  Henry,"  as  we  called 
him,  while  others  irreverently  knew  him  as  "  Baron  Puffen- 
dorf,"  was  always  kind  to  me.  When  I  stayed  with  him  in 
Rutland  Gate  I  took  up  my  cob,  and  we  used  to  ride  in 
the  Park  with  his  friend  Charles  Greville,  whom  I  did  not 
much  like,  with  Delane,  jaunty  and  kindly,  who  had  a  smile 
and  a  nod  for  everyone  and  looked  fresher  than  many  of  the 
young  girls,  although  he  was  up  till  two  or  three  every  morning 
at  The  Times  office,  and  with  Mr.  Carlyle.  Henry  welcomed 
Carlyle  with  effusion,  but  generally  managed  that  Delane  or 
Charles  Greville  should  ride  with  him,  while  I  had  to  go  with 
Carlyle.  One  day,  as  we  were  trotting,  his  wideawake  blew 
oil ;  a  civil  working  man  picked  it  up  and  ran  after  us.  Instead 
of  giving  him  sixpence,  or  even  twopence,  Carlyle  said  : 
"  Thank  ye,  my  man ;  ye  can  just  say  ye've  picked  up  the  hat 
of  Thomas  Carlyle."  I  felt  so  ashamed  that  I  told  Eothen 
he  must  come  and  meet  me  in  the  Park  and  take  me  away  from 
the  Sage.  Kinglake  had  appointed  himself  my  "  guardian," 
and  thought  it  would  be  improving  for  me  to  hear  speeches 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  Nothing  was  going  on  the  first 
time  he  took  me  but  mere  debate,  carried  on  by  chorus  and 
anti-chorus,  such  as,  "  Hear  !  Hear  !  "  in  approval,  or  "  Hear  ! 
Hear  !  Hear  !  "  in  derision  ;  "  Spoke  !  Spoke  !  "  "  No  ! 
No!"  "Order!  Order!"  "Withdraw!  Withdraw!" 
"  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  (said  to  be  a  substitute  for  profane  swear- 
ing). I  listened  to  what  I  considered  misbehaviour  of  the 
silliest  nursery  type  with  considerable  scorn,  and  when  Eothen 
came  to  see  whether  I  was  properly  impressed  by  the  pro- 


42  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

ceedings,  I  turned  upon  him  indignantly  and  asked  how  he 
dared  bring  me  to  such  a  childish  place. 

A  curious  incident  apropos  of  Kinglake's  book  Eothen  was 
told  me  by  Lord  Houghton,  who  was  in  Paris  in  1848.  Mr. 
Monckton  Milnes,  as  he  then  was,  never  missed  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  everybody  and  everything,  and  by  great  perseverance 
obtained  an  audience  of  M.  de  Lamartine.  He  found  the 
Poet-Minister  writing  decrees  and  tearing  up  those  of  his 
colleagues,  until  paper  was  accumulated  nearly  up  to  his  waist, 
Lamartine,  who  hardly  gave  himself  time  to  eat  or  to  sleep, 
vouchsafed  scant  words  to  the  intrusive  Englishman,  who  had 
waited  a  long  time  for  his  audience.  Whilst  waiting  Milnes 
looked  at  the  books  on  the  table,  and  noticed  one  lying  open, 
face  downwards.  Always  curious,  he  turned  it  over,  and  found 
it  was  Eothen  open  at  the  description  of  Kinglake's  visit  to 
Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  during  which  she  mentioned  Lamartine, 

In  the  autumn  our  house  was  let  to  Mr.  Charles  Buxton, 
who  was  building  Fox  Warren  at  Cobham,  near  Esher.  We 
went  to  Paris  chiefly  in  order  that  I  might  learn  French. 
M.  de  Bammeville  had  taken  rooms  for  us  at  a  small  hotel 
somewhere  on  the  lie  de  Paris  until  we  found  an  apartment. 
It  was  much  frequented  by  priests,  consequently  cheap,  and 
the  food  was  good.  I  remember  well  how  astonished  and  rather 
shocked  I  was  at  my  hot  water  being  brought  in  the  morning 
by  a  tall  young  chamber-man,  instead  of  by  a  maid.  Soon, 
however,  we  moved  to  a  fiat  in  the  rue  Chaillot.  St.  Hilaire 
was  often  there,  and  was  much  distressed  by  my  methodless 
way  of  learning  a  language.  He  wanted  to  ground  me  in 
grammar,  and  forbade  novels,  as  he  wanted  to  make  "  une 
femme  serieuse  "  of  "  la  fetite  Janet.''^  His  exhortations  were 
delivered  in  such  exquisite  French  that  I  declared  he  should  be 
my  grammar,  and  between  St.  Hilaire  and  Victor  Cousin 
I  soon  learnt  enough  French  to  be  able  to  take  keen  delight  in 
my  frequent  visits  to  the  Sorbonne.  There  Cousin  would  talk 
to  me  by  the  hour,  not  about  Plato,  but  about  the  beautiful 
ladies  of  the  seventeenth  century,  particularly  Madame  de 
Longueville,  until  I  felt  I  knew  them  personally.  He  never 
called  me  Janette,  declaring  that  to  be  iin  nom  de  paysanne^  I  was 


REMINISCENCES  43 

always  Jeanne  to  him.  He  rather  backed  me  up  against 
St.Hilaire  about  novels.  One  day  he  gave  me  La  Petite 
Fadette  to  read,  and  then  St.  Hilaire  coming  in,  pulled  out  of 
his  pocket  his  own  book  Du  Frai,  du  Beau  et  du  Bierty  "  to 
please  our  Aristotelian."  Cousin  was  such  a  strong  and  im- 
posing personality  that  I  often  wonder  at  the  comparatively 
slight  mark  he  has  left  on  the  world.  The  son  of  an  artisan, 
he  rose  by  sheer  ability  and  intellect  to  be  Inspector-General 
of  Education,  a  Peer  of  France,  Director  of  the  Ecole  Normale, 
and  Minister  of  Public  Education.  At  twenty-three  he  was 
already  teacher  of  modern  philosophy  at  the  Sorbonne  under 
M.  Royer-Collard  (in  1815)  until  the  latter  was  suspended  for 
his  liberal  ideas,  when  Cousin  shared  his  master's  fate,  and  then 
began  his  famous  translation  of  Plato.  He  travelled  in 
Germany,  where  for  some  unknown  reason  he  was  suspected 
of  being  a  carbonaro  and  was  imprisoned,  I  think,  in  Berlin. 
But  he  did  not  complain  of  this  :  "  Cela  vCa  valu  Vamitie  du 
grand  Hegel^  qui  venait  voir  le  prisonnier  franfais.  Les  fauvres 
geoliers  !  voila  des  gens  qui  s'ennuyaient  de  nos  conversations.^^ 
My  grandmother  Austin,  then  in  the  height  of  her  beauty, 
met  him  at  Bonn  in  1828,  just  before  he  returned  to  France. 
They  became  intimate  friends,  fraternized  on  the  subject 
of  popular  education,  and  four  years  later  she  translated  his 
report  on  the  state  of  education  in  Prussia  and  Holland. 
In  1840  M.  Thiers  appointed  him  Minister  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion, but  twelve  years  later  he  retired  from  public  life,  as  he 
refused  to  take  the  oath  or  to  serve  under  the  Prince  President. 
No  words  can  describe  the  charm  and  the  brilliancy  of  his 
talk.  Incisive,  vigorous,  and  vivacious,  he  swept  his  hearers 
away  like  a  torrent.  His  voice  was  peculiarly  sweet,  yet  power- 
ful, and  he  managed  it  to  perfection.  He  lacked  height,  but 
his  head  was  fine  and  his  large  hazel  eyes  marvellous,  now 
flashing  and  commanding,  then  soft  and  caressing,  particularly 
when  he  mentioned  la  grande  et  belle  dame,  Madame  de  Longue- 
ville.  St.  Hilaire  did  not  at  all  approve  of  his  beloved  master 
throwing  away  his  time  on  Mesdames  de  Chevreuse  and 
Longueville,  and  grudged  every  moment  that  he  stole,  as  he 
expressed  it,  from  Plato.     M.  Mignet,  of  whom  I  was  rather 


44  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

afraid,  Comte  Alfred  de  Vigny,  Leon  de  Wailly,  whose 
clever  novel  Stella  and  Vanessa  my  mother  had  translated, 
Auguste  Barbier,  the  poet,  and  others,  came  to  see  us  in  rue 
Chaillot,  but  my  especial  friend  and  playfellow,  besides  my 
two  old  philosophers,  was  Fletcher  Norton,  then  secretary 
at  the  Embassy  in  Paris.  I  suppose  my  passionate  admiration 
of  his  mother  touched  and  amused  him,  for  he  was  very  good 
to  me,  and  often  took  me  to  the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation, 
which  was  not  far  from  us. 

While  in  Paris  we  heard  that  Macaulay  had  been  made  a 
peer,  and  about  the  same  time  Lord  Lansdowne  wrote  to 
my  mother  that  after  due  consideration  he  had  declined  a 
dukedom,  adding  that  he  had  been  much  gratiiied  and  touched 
by  the  many  congratulations  he  had  received  upon  the  pro- 
posed honour.  The  Emperor,  to  whose  credit  it  must  be  said 
that  he  did  not  forget  people  who  had  been  kind  to  him  in 
former  days  in  London,  sent  several  times  to  place  a  carriage 
at  my  mother's  orders.  She  never  accepted  it,  for  at  Esher 
we  had  become  friends  with  the  Orleans  family,  and  also  our 
dear  St.  Hilaire  would  hav*  disapproved  of  her  accepting 
any  favour  from  ce  Monsieur,  as  he  called  the  Emperor  with 
infinite  scorn.  Eliot  Warburton  had  introduced  Prince  Louis 
Napoleon  at  Queen  Square,  where  he  used  to  drop  in  to  dinner 
now  and  then,  but  no  one  liked  him  much,  and  as  a  small  child 
I  positively  disliked  the  queer,  silent  man. 

When  we  returned  to  Esher  in  November  we  found  Clare- 
mont  plunged  in  deep  grief.  The  Duchess  of  Nemours  had 
given  birth  to  a  daughter  and  was  getting  well  enough  to  sit 
up.  Her  maid  was  brushing  her  long,  beautiful  fair  hair, 
when  the  Duke  came  in  to  say  good-bye  before  taking  his  two 
boys  out  riding.  Gaily  she  said  that  the  following  week  he 
must  give  up  his  daily  ride  and  take  her  out  in  the  pony- 
chaise.  Before  he  had  gone  two  hundred  yards  she  suddenly 
cried  :  "  Je  me  meurs"  and  fell  back  dead.  She  was  the  ray  of 
sunshine  in  that  rather  dull  house,  and  the  Duke  never  lost 
the  sad  look  that  settled  on  his  face  after  his  wife's  death. 
Hio  two  sons,  the  Comte  d'Eu  and  the  Due  d'Alengon,  were 
remarkably  handsome  lads,  and  the  Duke  himself  was  extra- 


REMINISCENCES  45 

ordinarily  like  the  portraits  of  Henri  IV,  The  Due  d'Aumale, 
most  agreeable  and  kindest  of  men,  started  a  pack  of  harriers 
about  this  time;  and  as  the  fields  were  small  and  the  hedges  big, 
hunting  was  capital  fun.  The  Prinseps,  with  "  Signer,"  used 
to  spend  the  winter  with  an  old  aunt  of  Mr.  Thoby  Prinsep's 
at  Esher,  and  whenever  Mr.  Izod,  our  friend  and  doctor, 
could  not  go  out  with  the  hounds  "  Signor  "  chaperoned  me. 
He,  however,  always  explained  :  "  I  am  supposed  to  look  after 
Janet,  but  in  reality  she  takes  care  of  me,"  He  rode  well, 
but  always  on  the  curb,  and  when  there  was  a  gate,  or  a  blind 
ditch,  I  insisted  on  his  going  round  by  the  road,  I  did  not 
want  to  be  accused  of  causing  the  death  of  the  great  painter. 
Izod  was  a  magnificent  horseman,  and  with  him  I  hunted  with 
the  Surrey  Union  foxhounds.  In  spring  and  summer  I  often 
went  fishing  and  boating  on  the  Mole.  Fish  were  scarce, 
but  some  amusement  could  always  be  got  out  of  a  water-rat 
with  my  pet  bull-terrier,  or  a  water-hen  with  its  dash  of 
scarlet  on  the  head,  which  dodged  in  and  out  of  the  tall  bul- 
rushes and  rosy-lilac  loosestrife,  and  which  I  never  succeeded 
in  catching.  Rowing  downstream  one  passed  the  fine  old  red- 
brick tower,  all  that  is  left  of  the  palace  of  Cardinal  Wolsey. 
Picturesque  and  stately  it  was,  garlanded  with  ivy,  its  empty 
window-sills  fringed  with  the  pink  flowers  and  red  stems  of  poor 
robin.  I  am  afraid  that  Arthur  Prinsep  and  I  used  to  pretend 
more  admiration  than  we  really  felt  in  order  to  row  down- 
stream and  troll  for  jack,  where  the  river  was  preserved  by 
old  Mr.  Spicer,  who  once  suddenly  came  out  of  the  old  tower 
and  scolded  us  well.  When  we  wanted  to  picnic  we  rowed  up- 
stream, passing,  after  about  two  miles,  under  an  overhanging 
cliff,  the  "  Lover's  Leap,"  to  a  wood  sloping  down  to  the  river, 
which  in  spring  was  carpeted  with  bluebells.  One  day  we 
went  with  two  boats  :  Dicky  Doyle,  Henry  Phillips,  Millais, 
M.  Ary  Scheffer,  who  was  painting  the  portrait  of  Queen 
Marie  Amelie  at  Claremont,  his  daughter,  and  ourselves. 
The  wine  had  been  hung  over  the  side  of  the  boat  to  cool, 
and  a  bottle  had  somehow  slipped  out  of  the  string,  so  my 
father  told  the  ladies  to  go  away,  stripped,  and  dived  to  recover 
it.     We  we.rp  immensely  amused  by  hearing  M.  Ary  Scheffer 


46  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

exclaim  in  a  loud  voice  :  "  he  malheureux,  mais  il  va  s*en- 
rhumer"  as  we  retired  into  the  wood.  Millais  did  catch  cold, 
though  he  did  not  dive,  and  was  laid  up  at  our  house  for  a 
week  with  a  very  bad  throat.  I  remember  it  because  I  had  to 
sit  by  his  bedside  and  change  the  iced  bandages. 

In  Chesterfield  Street,  where  I  sometimes  stayed  with 
Mrs.  Norton,  I  met  many  agreeable  people  :  Lord  Lansdowne, 
Lord  Sligo,  my  grandmother  Austin's  old  friend  Hayward, 
who  was  always  very  gracious  to  me,  Mr.  Motley,  Stirling  of 
Keir,  and  many  others.  One  day  we  went  to  buy  plaster  casts 
for  one  of  her  nieces  to  draw  from,  and  the  man,  after  display- 
ing several  hands,  feet,  ears,  etc.,  held  up  a  beautifully  shaped 
nose.  "  There,  ma'am,  I  recommend  that ;  it's  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Norton's  nose ;  hartists  do  buy  a  lot  of  'em."  Sitting 
by  her  in  the  brougham  with  full  opportunity  for  gazing  at 
her  wonderful  profile,  I  did  not  wonder  that  the  cast  of  her 
delicate  and  perfect  nose  should  be  in  such  request.  She 
drew  and  painted  herself,  and  used  to  tell  a  good  story  of  a 
model  who  came  to  sit.  The  woman  stood  looking  about, 
so  Mrs.  Norton  told  her  to  take  off  her  dress,  as  she  wanted  an 
arm  and  shoulder.  "  Oh  Lor',  ma'am,"  was  the  reply,  "  if 
I  start  an  'ook  I'm  Leda  frightened  by  the  swan." 

My  dear  Aunt  Carrie  was  boundlessly  kind  to  me,  and  I 
always  thought  she  was  more  agreeable  and  brilliant  when 
we  were  alone,  or  en  -petit  comite,  than  when  there  were  many 
people  ;  then  she  sometimes  posed  and  seemed  to  try  and 
startle  her  hearers.  No  one  could  tell  a  story  better,  and  then 
it  gained  so  much  by  being  told  in  that  rich,  low-toned  voice. 
Her  singing  I  could  listen  to  for  hours.  It  may  have  been 
unschooled,  but  her  voice  was  beautiful,  and  she  sang  with  such 
expression  that  she  brought  tears  into  many  eyes.  I  have 
often  heard  her  hair  called  black — quite  a  mistake.  One  of  her 
great  beauties  was  the  harmony  between  her  very  dark  but 
brown  hair,  velvet-brown  eyes,  and  rich  brunette  complexion. 
Her  sister.  Lady  Dufferin  (afterwards  Lady  Gifford)  was  also 
handsome,  witty,  and  charming.  One  day  my  mother  asked 
her  when  she  was  going  to  Highgate.  Modestly  casting  down 
her  eyes,  she  answered  :    "  As  soon,  my  dear,  as  Price  has 


REMINISCENCES  47 

cleared  the  garden  of  all  the  cock  robins."  (Her  husband  was 
rather  jealous.)  No  one  else  could  have  said,  on  hearing 
many  shoes  being  cleaned  outside  her  cabin  door  on  a  rough 
passage  across  the  Irish  Channel,  when  very  sea-sick  :  "  Oh, 
my  dear  Carrie,  there  must  be  centipedes  on  board." 

The  comet  due  in  1857  made  its  appearance  in  September, 
1858.  A  magnificent  sight  it  was,  with  a  great  tail  streaming 
far  behind.  People  were  no  longer  frightened  at  it,  but 
declared  that  it  foretold  war,  and  speculation  was  rife  with 
whom.  My  father  and  I,  "  the  inseparables,"  as  we  were 
called,  went  to  Radnorshire  to  stay  with  Sir  George  Lewis  at 
Harpton.  He  took  us  for  long  rides  over  the  hills  on  wonderful 
little  Welsh  ponies  which  carried  my  tall  father  as  though  he 
had  been  a  small  boy.  Those  who  only  knew  George  as  the 
author  of  the  often-repeated  sentence  "  Life  would  be  tolerable 
but  for  its  amusements,"  had  no  idea  of  the  vein  of  humour 
which  existed  under  his  rather  stern  exterior.  He  was  a  dull 
speaker  though,  and  a  good  story  was  told  of  how  Bernal 
Osborne,  after  listening  to  a  long  and  rather  tedious  speech, 
sprang  to  his  feet,  raised  both  arms,  and  in  his  ringing  voice 
exclaimed  :  "  I  entreat  the  House  not  to  be  carried  away  by 
the  fervid  eloquence  of  the  Right  Honourable  Gentleman," 
which  caused  a  roar  of  laughter.  The  Latin  skit,  Inscriptio 
Antiqua^  in  Agro  Bruttio  Nufer  Reperta,  and  Suggestions  for 
the  application  of  the  Egyptological  Method  to  Modern  History,  are 
good  examples  of  George's  learned  trifling,  and  very  amusing. 


CHAPTER   IV 

IORD  LANSDOWNE,  friend  of  my  grandmother 
Austin  and  of  my  mother,  was  always  very  kind  to 
me,  and  sometimes  asked  me  to  stay  at  Lansdowne 
^  House.  He  took  me  to  one  of  the  Handel  festivals 
at  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  I  was  amused  by  the  fine  ladies 
who  sat  near  us  making  much  of  me  because  they  saw  I  was 
a  favourite  of  the  old  Marquis.  He  told  me  that  he  was  called 
"  the  dancing  Chancellor,"  when  as  Lord  Henry  Petty  he 
joined  the  Ministry  of  "  all  the  talents,  wisdom,  and  ability  " 
as  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  at  twenty-six.  Kind,  fair,  and 
tolerant,  he  smoothed  away  all  difficulties  by  his  courteous, 
suave  speech  and  manner,  under  which  one  felt  there  existed 
a  strong  Avill  and  a  habit  of  command.  None  will  ever  know 
the  innumerable  acts  of  generosity  and  kindness  done  by  him 
in  so  charming  a  way  that  he  made  it  appear  that  the  recipient 
of  the  kindness  was  the  one  who  conferred  it.  I  never  saw  him 
angry  but  once.  Crossing  the  hall  at  Lansdowne  House,  we 
found  a  shabbily  dressed  man  sitting  on  the  bench  near  the 
door.  He  came  forward  and  was  greeted  with  effusion  by 
Lord  Lansdowne,  to  the  utter  discomfiture  of  a  young  foot- 
man, who,  seeing  his  shabby  clothes,  had  told  him  to  sit  down, 
as  My  Lord  was  engaged.  I  forget  who  the  gentleman  was, 
but  I  am  sure  no  ill-dressed  man  was  ever  told  to  sit  down  and 
Yiz\t  by  a  servant  in  Lansdowne  House  again.  After  our  ex- 
cursion to  the  Crystal  Palace  Lord  Lansdowne  had  a  fit  of  the 
gout,  and  I  lunched  alone,  with  a  butler,  an  under  butler,  and 
three  powdered  footmen  to  see  after  the  wants  of  a  girl 
of  fifteen.  I  never  felt  so  nervous  in  my  Hfe  ;  and  after  luncheon 
went  into  the  study  and  told  my  dear  old  friend  that  if  he  did 

4S 


JANET    DL'FF   GORDON. 
By  G.  F.  \\'atts. 


REMINISCENCES  49 

not  let  me  have  lunch  with  him  on  his  tray  I  begged  he  would 
send  me  home.  He  laughed,  and  promised  I  should  dine  and 
lunch  with  him  in  future.  One  winter  we  were  at  Bowood 
when  the  Duke  of  Beaufort's  hounds  met  in  the  Park,  and  I 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  go  out.  To  my  dismay,  Lord  Lansdowne 
insisted  on  my  riding  his  pet  cob  Silvertail  and  taking  his  own 
steady  groom  to  look  after  me.  The  groom  I  soon  left  on  the 
wrong  side  of  a  fence,  and  the  Duke  was  half  amused,  half 
frightened  at  the  resolute  way  in  which  I  rode  the  park  hack. 
Silvertail  enjoyed  the  fun  as  much  as  I  did,  and  after  a  mistake 
or  two  carried  me  well.  I  brought  back  the  brush  in  triumph, 
and  presented  it  to  my  dear  old  friend  in  honour  of  his  mare. 
Two  days  afterwards,  being  backed  by  the  head  coachman,  I 
was  mounted  on  a  raking  Irish  hunter  belonging  to  Lord 
Shelburne,  and  felt  much  more  comfortable.  Lady  Morgan 
(Sydney),  Miss  Mary  Boyle,  and  Tom  Taylor  were  at  Bowood 
on  one  occasion  and  acted  charades.  In  one  Miss  Boyle  was 
inimitable  as  a  ploughboy.  "  Signor  "  was  also  there,  paint- 
ing the  frescoes  in  the  hall — of  Briseis  brought  to  Achilles, 
and  of  the  Mother  of  the  Gracchi.  Lady  Somers,  Mrs.  Norton, 
and  my  mother  sat  for  some  of  the  figures.  Lady  Somers  was, 
I  think,  Briseis.  I  was  pressed  into  the  service,  and  stood  for 
Patroclus,  dressed  up  in  a  magnificent  suit  of  armour,  w^hich 
hurt  my  shoulders.  As  a  recompense  "  Signor  "  gave  me  the 
study  of  my  head. 

Lord  Lansdowne  always  wore  w^hat  I  believe  was  the  old 
Whig  dress,  a  dark  blue  coat  with  gilt  buttons  and  a  bufl- 
coloured  waistcoat.  Being  perhaps  aware  of  his  grand  air,  he 
used  to  tell  a  story  about  Turner's  old  maid  with  great  zest. 
Having  rung  the  bell  at  Turner's  house  in  Queen  Anne  Street 
several  times  without  getting  an  answer,  he  was  just  going 
away  when  the  woman  appeared  in  the  area,  looked  up,  and 
said  :  "  Be  you  the  cat's-meat  man  ?  " 

In  the  early  spring  of  1858  I  was  riding  down  to  the  station 
to  meet  my  father,  as  I  did  every  day,  when  a  small  boy  fell 
in  the  road  just  in  front  of  my  horse.  I  jumped  off,  picked  him 
up,  and  he  made  heroic  efforts  not  to  cry,  "  Papa  says  little 
men  ought  not  to  cry,"  he  said,  stifling  his  sobs.  I  asked  him 
E 


50  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

where  his  father  lived,  and  he  pointed  to  a  cottage  with 
a  garden  in  front,  where  I  knew  lodgings  were  to  be  had. 
Telling  the  groom  to  ride  on,  I  led  my  horse  with  one  hand 
and  the  little  boy  with  the  other,  and  rang.  A  gentleman  came 
out,  kissed  the  child,  and  then  looked  hard  at  me.  "  Are  you 
not  Lady  Duff  Gordon's  daughter  ?  "  he  asked  ;  and  before  the 
answer  was  out  of  my  mouth  he  clasped  me  in  his  arms,  ex- 
claiming :  "  Oh,  my  Janet  !  Don't  you  know  me  ?  I'm  your 
Poet."  Meredith  had  left  Weybridge  before  we  moved  from 
London  to  Esher,  and  though  all  his  friends,  particularly  Tom 
Taylor,  had  tried  to  find  out  where  he  and  his  baby  boy  were, 
he  seemed  to  have  vanished  into  space.  He  did  not  know  we 
were  at  Esher,  and  at  once  declared  he  would  come  and  live 
near  us.  I  was  obliged  to  ride  off  to  the  station  to  meet  my 
father,  but  on  our  way  home  we  stopped  and  told  him  to  come 
to  dinner.  Great  was  the  joy  at  having  found  our  friend  again. 
Next  morning  I  joined  him  in  searching  for  a  cottage,  and  we 
found  one,  fit  retreat  for  a  poet,  standing  alone  on  Copsham 
Common,  near  the  fir  woods  behind  Claremont  Park.  There 
Meredith  installed  himself ;  and  when  he  went  to  London 
twice  a  week,  being  reader  to  Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall,  he 
brought  his  little  son  Arthur  to  me,  and  I  taught  him  German. 
We  used  to  take  long  walks  together.  The  Black  Pool  in  the 
fir  woods,  where  a  stately  heron  was  often  to  be  found,  was 
one  of  our  favourite  haunts.  My  Poet  would  recite  poetry  or 
talk  about  his  novels.  I  made  him  write  down  some  of  the 
verses  he  improvised  as  we  sat  among  the  heather,  and  still 
have  the  faded  scraps  of  paper  with  his  characteristic  writing 
in  the  well-known  blue  ink. 

Evan  Harrington  (which  was  first  called  He  would  b£  a 
Gentleman)  was  my  novel,  because  Rose  Jocelyn  was  myself. 
(Sir  Frank  and  Lady  Jocelyn  were  my  father  and  mother,  and 
Miss  Current  was  Miss  Louisa  Courtenay,  a  very  old  friend 
of  my  parents,  who  often  stayed  with  us  at  Esher.)  With  the 
magnificent  impertinence  of  sixteen  I  would  interrupt  Mere- 
dith, exclaiming  :  "  No,  I  should  never  have  said  it  like  that  "  ; 
or,  "  I  should  not  have  done  so."  A  young  Irish  retriever, 
Peter,   which    I    was    breaking   in    and    afterwards    gave    to 


REMINISCENCES  51 

little  Arthur,  was  immortalized  in  the  pages  of  the  novel  at 
my  special  request. 

My  Poet  went  to  stay  with  a  friend  who  was  somewhat  of 
an  epicure  and  was  going  to  give  a  dinner.  He  wrote  to  me 
from  there  :  "  Fitz  goes  about  the  house  and  neighbourhood 
with  a  large  volume  of  FrancatelH  in  his  hand.  Thus  have  we 
colloquized  : — 

"  Fitz  :  Oyster  soup  is  out  of  the  question,  with  cod  and 
oysters  to  follow.    It  must  be  brown.   But  if  the  veal  does  not 

come  from  Brighton.     Good  G d  !  what  a  set  of  heathens 

these  people  are. 

Poet  :  Eh  ?    Oh  yes,  brown,  of  course. 

Fitz  :  You  haven't  the  sHghtest  idea  of  the  difficulties. 

Poet  (mooning)  :  She  was  dressed  very  becomingly  in 
white  sauce. 

Fitz  (taking  it  naturally)  :  A  la  Bechamel.  That's  what  I'm 
most  anxious  about.  Do  you  think  Ockendon  understood  my 
directions  ?  The  potatoes  to  be  sliced  about  half  an  inch  ; 
sauce  poured  over  them  ;  then  a  fresh  layer.  (Becomes  ex- 
cited.) If  well  done,  I  know  nothing  better  in  the  world  than 
potatoes  a  la  Bechamel. 

Poet  (writes)  :  And  you  are  all  I  care  for  in  the  world, 
dearest  Rose.  I  care  for  nothing  but  you  on  earth.  (Answers 
a  trebly  repeated  query)  Oh  yes,  I  like  Maintenon  cutlets 
very  much. 

Fitz  (rubbing  his  hands)  :  I  can  trust  to  old  Ockendon  for 
them,  thank  Heaven. 

Poet  (getting  awake)  :  Your  wife  should  be  a  good  cook, 
Maurice. 

Fitz  :  Well,  if  she's  at  all  educated  and  civilized  she  will  be. 

Poet  :  I  know  a  marriageable  young  lady  who  hates 
potatoes,  doesn't  understand  a  particle  of  the  great  science, 
and  finishes  her  dinner  in  two  minutes. 

Fitz  :  Lord  help  the  man  who  marries  her. 


52  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Poet  :  I  think  he'll  be  a  lucky  fellow. 

Fitz :  No  accounting  for  tastes.  (Pursues  his  theme.) 
The  pheasant  opposite  you.  I'll  take  the  plovers.  Ockendon 
says  the  jelly  has  set.  Fancy  your  not  knowing  how  much  a 
gill  is.  A  gill  and  a  half  of  maraschino.  I  think  the  jelly  will 
be  a  success. 

Poet  :  Upon  my  honour,  you  look  as  radiant  as  if  you  had 
just  touched  off  an  ode. 

Fitz  :  We  won't  open  the  champagne  till  the  second 
course. 

Poet  :  I  stick  to  claret.    What's  the  matter  ? 

Fitz  (impatiently)  :  I've  asked  you  half  a  dozen  times 
whether  you  think  the  ratafias  should  garnish  the  jelly. 

Poet  :  Just  as  you  like.  (Writes)  :  But  a  misfortune  now 
befell  our  hero. 

Fitz  (with  melancholy)  :  I've  given  up  all  hopes  of  the 
plovers'  eggs.  Heigho  !  (Stretches  himself  in  a  chair  in  a  state 
of  absolute  mental  depression.) 

Poet,  regarding  him,  takes  out  notebook,  writes  :  Life  is 
a  thing  of  circles,  like  Dante's  hell.  In  the  narrowest  of  them 
Despair  may  be  as  abysmal,  Hope  as  great,  as  in  the  widest. 
The  patriot  who  sees  his  country  enslaved,  the  lover  who  wins 
a  smile  from  his  mistress  one  day  and  hears  the  next  that  she 
has  bestowed  the  like  on  another  gentleman  ;  these  sorrow  not, 
nor  joy  not  more  violently  than  one  who  is  deprived  of  plovers' 
eggs,  expectant  of  them,  or  greets  a  triumphant  dish  of  potatoes 
a  la  BechamelP 

My  Poet  Avas  very  fond  of  music,  and  his  favourite  song  was 
Schubert's  Addio.  I  complained  about  the  commonplace 
German  words,  so  he  wrote  for  me  the  following  verses,  which 
have  brought  tears  to  many  eyes  : — 


REMINISCENCES  53 


SCHUBERT'S    JDDIO 

"  The  pines  are  darkly  swaying  : 
The  skies  are  ashen-gray : 
I  mock  my  soul  delaying 
The  word  I  have  to  say. 

As  if  above  it  thundered 

That  we,  who  are  one  heart, 

Must  now  for  aye  be  sundered 
My  passion  bids  mc  part. 

I  dare  not  basely  languish. 
Nor  press  your  lips  to  mine ; 

But  with  one  cry  of  anguish. 
My  darling  I  resign. 

Our  dreams  we  two  must  smother : 
The  bitter  truth  is  here. 

This  hand  is  for  another 

Which  I  have  held  so  dear. 

To  pray  that  at  the  altar 
You  may  be  blessed  above : 

Ah,  help  me,  if  I  falter, 
And  keep  me  true  to  love. 

But  once,  but  once,  look  kindly, 
Once  clasp  me  with  your  spell : 

Let  joy  and  pain  meet  blindly. 
And  throb  our  dumb  farewell." 


G.  M. 


Lord  Lansdowne  (to  my  father's  sorrow)  had  given  me  a 
splendid  Erard  grand  piano,  and  we  always  told  my  Poet  when 
Mrs.  Tom  Taylor,  a  very  fine  musician  and  composer,  or 
Mrs.  Nassau  Senior,  came  to  stay  with  us.  Even  my  father 
liked  Janie  Senior's  singing.    How  lovely  she  looked  with  her 


54  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

crinkly  golden  hair,  her  sweet  face  changing  with  every  note 
of  her  beautiful,  clear  voice.  Her  ringing  laugh  was  a  joy  to 
hear,  but  those  who  only  met  her  in  society  did  not  know  the 
amount  of  practical  good  sense  which  lay  under  her  bright 
manner.  Mrs.  Senior  was  the  first  woman  appointed  Inspector 
of  the  Local  Government  Board,  and  she  wrote  an  admirable 
paper  on  female  pauper  schools,  in  which  she  insisted  that 
what  the  little  girls  needed  was  "  more  mothering."  Senor 
Manuel  Garcia  came  with  her  one  day  and  told  us  wonderful 
tales  about  his  rides  on  the  Pampas,  so  I  persuaded  him  to  go 
out  riding  with  me,  and  show  me  how  they  picked  up  things 
from  the  ground  at  full  gallop.  We  went  to  Copsham  Common, 
and  there  Seiior  Garcia  circled  round  and  round,  throwing  his 
hat  on  the  ground  and  picking  it  up  with  the  greatest  ease. 
I  need  not  say  that  he  rose  high  in  my  estimation  after  such 
an  exhibition  of  horsemanship.  He  made  me  sing  some  German 
popular  songs  I  had  picked  up  by  ear  in  Dresden,  and  declared 
that  I  had  a  good  voice.  "  Remember  two  things,"  he  said  ; 
"  pronounce  your  words  so  clearly  that  people  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  can  understand  them,  and  avoid  tremolo." 
Thus  encouraged,  I  began  to  sing  and  play  with  enthusiasm. 
Dicky  Doyle  heard  me  one  day,  and  sent  me  The  Old  Folks  at 
Home,  with  the  accompanying  letter. 

I  often  stayed  with  my  cousins  Sir  Edmund  and  Lady 
Antrobus,  either  at  Cheam,  at  Amesbury,  or  in  London. 
Lady  Antrobus,  kindest  and  best  of  women,  was  my  god- 
mother, and  occasionally  remonstrated  gently  with  my  father 
about  the  way  he  spoiled  me.  She  did  not  at  all  approve  of 
my  having  so  many  men  friends.  When  one  day  Meredith 
came  to  take  me  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus  to  the  Tower  of 
London,  which  I  had  never  seen,  she  wanted  to  send  her 
daughter's  French  maid  to  act  as  chaperon.  Fortunately 
Camille  was  busy  making  a  ball  dress,  and  could  not  be  spared. 
My  godmother  was,  however,  somewhat  consoled  when  she 
found  that  httle  Arthur  was  going  with  us.  The  concerts  at 
130  Piccadilly  were  always  remarkably  good.  There  I  heard 
Mario  and  Grisi,  Titjiens,  Gardoni,  etc.  At  one  I  realized  what 
a  difference  dress  can  make.     Mrs.  Austin  happened  to  be  in 


^^.^- 


^   ^A^    Ja^^^^/ 


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'Tlfc*.^^       47^ 


y 


y?^^     ^-K,^-*** /l.^        Ai'i^     4-u~c^      i-^ini^     C      <^*»-»fc^ 


^^ 


LETTER   FROM    RICHARD    DOYLE   TO   JANET    DUFF   GORDON. 


REMINISCENCES  55 

London  with  her  brother,  old  Mr.  John  Taylor,  and  Lady 
Antrobus  sent  her  an  invitation.  I  had  generally  seen  my 
grandmother  in  very  neglige  costume  at  Weybridge,  or  in  a 
hideous  poke-bonnet  when  she  drove  over  to  Esher,  and  never 
noticed  that  she  was  still  singularly  handsome.  She  came  to 
the  concert  dressed  in  black  lace,  with  one  dark  yellow  rose 
in  her  black  lace  bonnet  ;  and  as  Lady  Antrobus  went  forward 
to  greet  her  I  heard  people  asking  who  that  handsome  woman 
was,  while  some  rose  from  their  chairs  to  see  her  better.  She 
must  have  been  then  over  sixty,  but  her  complexion  was  like 
the  inside  of  a  shell,  and  her  features  were  beautiful.  I  felt 
quite  proud  of  my  grandmother. 

Sir  Edmund  was  Master  of  the  Tedworth  hounds,  and  when 
I  was  at  Amesbury  he  always  took  me  out  with  him.  One  of 
my  mounts  was  a  splendid  hunter  up  to  sixteen  stone,  which 
he  had  bought  from  Lord  Portsmouth.  Sir  Edmund  was  not 
a  big  man,  but  he  rode  heavily  and  leant  on  the  bit,  so  with  my 
light  weight  and  light  hand  Portsmouth  went  like  a  bird 
and  jumped  anything.  But  I  taught  him  bad  habits  and  was 
in  disgrace  for  a  time,  as  after  I  left  he  gave  Sir  Edmund  a  fall 
by  jumping  a  five-barred  gate,  instead  of  standing  quiet  to  let 
his  master  open  it.  Fortunately  my  kind  old  cousin  was  not 
hurt,  but  he  was  very  angry  when  one  of  the  farmers  told  him 
he  should  have  given  the  horse  his  head,  "like  that  young  lady." 
"  Damn  the  young  lady,  sir,"  rephed  Sir  Edmund,  and  no 
wonder.  The  old  huntsman,  a  great  ally  of  mine,  complained 
that  I  had  given  him  an  attack  of  "  the  rumatics  "  by  fording 
the  River  Avon  to  avoid  a  long  gallop  round  by  the  bridge. 
The  cob  I  was  riding  w'as  only  fourteen  hands  tw'o  inches, 
and  the  water  came  up  to  the  edge  of  my  saddle.  The  huntsman, 
of  course,  would  not  be  beaten  by  a  girl,  so  he  came  after  me. 
It  was  an  unpleasant  sensation  getting  one's  legs  wetter  and 
wetter,  and  I  was  afraid  the  wet  saddle  might  give  the  cob 
a  sore  back.  I  thought  I  should  never  hear  the  last  of  my  folly, 
tempting  Providence,  etc.,  from  some  older  ladies  who  hunted 
in  a  pony-chaise.  It  was  always  a  delight  when  my  uncle,  Cosmo 
Duff  Gordon,  kindest  and  cheeriest  of  men,  was  at  Amesbury. 
An  excellent  horsemnn,  with  a  jaunty  and  elegant  seat,  he  did 


56  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

not  think  it  necessary  to  go  to  the  meet  or  to  return  from 
hunting  at  that  dreadful  jog-trot  called,  I  believe,  "  butter 
and  eggs."  Sir  Edmund  always  went  that  pace,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  a  ride  home  of  eleven  miles  across  the  downs  in 
a  snow-storm,  on  tired  horses  trotting  slowly  about  five  miles 
an  hour. 

Before  my  Httle  sister  Urania  was  born  in  November,  1858, 
I  was  sent  with  Friiulein  von  Zeschau  to  an  hotel  at  Fresh- 
water Bay,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  near  where  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Tennyson  lived.  They  were  kind  to  me,  and  I  became  very 
fond  of  her.  A  great  invalid,  she  was  always  patient  and  gentle, 
thinking  of  others,  and  not  of  herself.  In  fine  weather  she  was 
lifted  into  a  long,  low  kind  of  carriage,  which  her  husband 
pulled,  and  sometimes  I  pushed  behind.  One  day  the  great 
poet's  shoe-string  came  untied,  and  imperiously  pointing  to 
his  foot,  he  said:  "Janet,  tie  my  shoe."  I  resented  so  imperative 
a  command,  besides  which  the  strings  were  extremely  dirty, 
so  rudely  enough  I  answered  :  "  No ;  tie  your  own  shoe. 
Papa  says  men  should  wait  on. women,  not  women  on  men." 
The  moment  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth  I  could 
have  bitten  my  tongue  out.  Visions  of  the  beauties  at 
Little  Holland  House  attending  to  all  the  poet's  wants  rose 
before  me,  and  I  humbly  tied  his  shoe.  He  afterwards  told 
my  father  that  I  was  a  clever  girl,  but  extremely  badly 
brought  up. 

My  mother's  health  seemed  to  improve  so  much  after  the 
birth  of  my  small  sister  that  she  was  able  to  pass  the  winter 
at  Esher.  We  hoped  she  would  gradually  get  really  well  and 
strong,  and  perhaps  be  able  to  ride  a  magnificent  Arab  that 
had  been  given  to  her  some  time  before,  and  which  I  had 
always  ridden,  as  his  temper  was  very  queer.  He  was  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  half-past  four  train  at  Esher  station,  and  people 
used  to  look  out  of  the  carriage  windows  to  see  the  Arab 
spinning  round  like  a  top  as  soon  as  the  train  came  in  sight. 
I  did  not  care  for  him,  in  spite  of  his  great  beauty  and  easy 
paces,  as  he  could  not  be  used  for  hunting.  I  taught  him,  how- 
ever, to  jump  well  on  the  old  steeple-chase  course  at  Epsom, 
and  there  one  day  I  met  Sir  Francis  Head,  and  we  became 


REMINISCENCES  57 

fast  friends,^  My  mother  never  could  have  ridden  the  Arab, 
and  at  last  I  persuaded  her  to  let  Sir  Frank  have  him,  for  I 
forget  what  sum  and  a  wonderful  cob  he  sometimes  rode  when 
I  met  him.  I  must  not  forget  to  say  that  we  had  two  filUes  by 
the  Arab  out  of  Celia,  a  thoroughbred  chestnut  mare  Kinglake 
gave  to  my  father,  because  she  pulled  so  hard  that  she  was 
dangerous  to  ride  in  London.  When  the  eldest  was  three  years 
old  I  broke  her  in  with  Rarey's  straps.  Kinglake  had  taken  me 
to  see  Rarey  tackle  the  untamable  stallion  Cruiser,  and  I 
never  saw  anything  so  wonderful  as  the  mastery  he  had  ob- 
tained over  a  perfect  demon.  Cruiser  followed  Rarey  about 
(I  noticed  that  he  never  took  his  eye  off  the  horse),  shook  hands 
like  a  dog,  but  when  given  a  handkerchief  to  hold  in  his  teeth, 
he  shook  his  head,  let  it  drop,  and  stamped  with  rage.  Rarey 
insisted,  when  Cruiser  gave  a  scream  of  fury,  but  took  the 
handkerchief  and  held  it  for  a  second.  All  this  was  after  the 
horse  had  been  thrown  down  with  the  straps.  Rarey  after- 
wards told  us,  for  Kinglake  took  me  into  the  stables  behind, 
that  when  horses  were  thrown  down  for  the  first  time  they 
seemed  to  be  convinced  that  they  could  not  rise  unless  helped 
by  the  hand  that  had  conquered  them.  "  Signor  "  bought  the 
filly  when  I  ha"a  broken  her  in,  and  rode  her  for  some  years, 
when  I  bought  her  back  for  Prince  HaHm  Pasha. 

Sir  Frank  wrote  to  me  soon  after  he  bought  the  Arab  : — 

Sir  Francis  Head  to  Janet  Du-ff  Gordon. 

Croydon,  February  12,  1859. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Duff  Gordon, 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  your  little  note  has  made 

^  Sir  Francis  Bond  Head  (born  1793)  served  with  the  Royal  Engineers  at 
Waterloo,  and  under  General  Ziethen  at  Fleurens,  where  he  had  two  horses  shot 
tjndcr  him.  In  1825  he  led  a  party  to  work  gold  mines  in  Rio  de  la  Plata  and 
deicribed  his  ride  of  6000  miles  in  %ough  Notes  of  a  'Journey  Acroa  the  Pampas, 
In  1835  he  was  appointed  Governor-General  of  Canada,  where  he  suppressed  a 
rebellion,  and  repelled  an  invasion  of  "sympathizers"  from  the  United  States. 
For  his  services  he  was  created  a  Baronet.  Some  of  his  best-known  books  are 
Bubbles  from  the  'Brunnen  of  Nassau.  tA  Faggot  of  French  Sticks.  'Descriptive 
Essays.     The  Hone  and  His  ^ider. 


S8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

me.  I  knew  that  Cobby  was  very  fond  of  eating  and  drinking 
and  jumping.  But  since  I  left  you  I  have  often  thought  in 
the  day  and  dreamed  at  night  that  your  saddle  turned  round, 
that  when  he  met  an  ugly  carriage  he  would  turn  round,  and 
that,  on  the  whole,  it  would  turn  out  that  because  he  was 
not  thoroughbred,  or  an  Arab,  you  would  turn  your  nose  up, 
and  regret  that  you  had  ever  lived  to  see  him  or  me.  It  ap- 
pears, however,  that  you  have  been 

*  To  his  faults  a  little  blind, 
And  to  his  virtues  very  kind.' 

I  am  so  glad  that  he  carried  you  so  well,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  rode  him  uncommonly  well.  I  need  not  say  how  I 
should  have  enjoyed  seeing  you  both  go  over  that  big  stile  ; 
but  he  had  never  seen  the  blind  ditches  that  are  in  your 
country,  and  I  therefore  feel  much  obliged  to  him  for  not 
having  tumbled  you  into  one. 

I  hope  that  as  a  reward  for  his  steadiness  you  will  adorn 
him  by  having  his  coat  singed  once  more  this  season.  If  he  were 
as  old  as  I  am  the  operation  would  bother  him  ;  but  as  he  is 
only  five  years  old,  he  naturally  likes  to  look  tidy.  And  as  you 
have  a  nice  habit,  I  think  you  should  allow  him  to  have  a  good 
coat. 

With  regard  to  my  book,  it  will  be  full  of  chapters  and 
incidents,  and  as  soon  as  it  is  completed  I  will  ride  over  to 
Esher  and  sit  and  sup  barley-broth,  while  you  read  it  out 
aloud. 

Pilgrim  [as  Sir  Frank  christened  the  Arab]  is  going  on 
capitally.  I  am  very  fond  of  him.  He  walks  about  in  a  loose- 
box,  and  is  cleaned  without  being  tied  up.  My  quiet  man 
has  only  to  say  occasionally  in  a  gruff  tone,  'Adone  now,  or 
you'll  catch  it.' 

With  my  kindest  regards  to  all,  including  the  filly  and  the 
puppies, 

I  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Gordon, 

Yours  faithfully, 

F.  B.  Head." 


REMINISCENCES  59 

My  old  friend  held  balls  in  detestation,  and  attempted  to 
convert  me  to  his  ideas.  With  the  impertinence  of  a  spoiled 
child  I  turned  upon  him  and  asked  :  "  Sir  Frank,  were  you 
never  young  ?  "  This  made  him  laugh,  but  he  did  not  give 
up  remonstrating  with  me  about  my  love  of  dancing.  Lord 
Macaulay  taught  me  some  lines  (I  don't  know  whose  they  are) 
with  which  to  confound  Sir  Frank,  but  they  had  not  the 
slightest  effect  upon  him. 

**  Hail,  loveliest  art  that  canst  all  hearts  ensnare, 
And  make  the  fairest  still  appear  more  fair. 
Beauty  can  little  execution  do 
Unless  she  borrows  half  her  arms  from  you.  .  .  . 
Hence  with  her  sister  arts,  shall  dancing  claim 
An  equal  right  to  universal  fame ; 
And  Isaac's  Rigadoon  shall  live  as  long 
As  Raphael's  painting,  or  as  Virgil's  song." 

Sir  Francis  Head  to  Janet  Duf  Gordon. 

Croydon,  March  18,  1859. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Duff  Gordon, 

I  was  galloping  most  joyfully  across  the  ridged  and  fur- 
rowed lines  of  your  beautiful  green  note,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
I  almost  fell  head  over  heels  on  reading  that  you  were  thinking 
of  going  to  a  ball.  Now  pray  let  me  advise  you  not  even  to 
dream  of  dancing  until  you  are  forty  ;  for  you  have  not  the 
smallest  idea  of  the  inconveniences  it  vdll  entail  upon  you. 
You  know,  I  dare  say,  how  dreadfully  the  gout  hurts,  and 
what  a  sorrow  it  is ;  but  when  a  young  lady  of  near  seventeen 
deliberately  determines  to  look  grave,  purse  up  her  mouth, 
and  dance,  she  is  almost  sure,  sooner  rather  than  later,  to  be 
afflicted  with  symptoms  of  a  most  astonishing  description. 
For  instance,  when  she  awakes  in  the  morning  she  finds  her 
nightcap  has  crawled  all  over  her  face,  and  that  her  curl- 
papers have  all  vanished.  When  she  dresses  she  is  sure  to  put 
her  stocking  on  her  fingers,  white  kid  gloves  on  her  feet,  and, 
unconsciously,  to  come  down  to  breakfast  carrying  her  crinoline 


6o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

in  her  hand.  The  tea  tastes  of  tar,  her  mother's  barley-broth 
hke  boiled  sawdust.  Every  egg  seems  to  be  addled.  When  she 
sits  down  to  work,  she  keeps  pricking  her  thumb.  In  the  garden, 
the  sky  appears  to  be  green,  the  grass  blue,  and  the  birds  flying 
with  their  toes  uppermost.  In  short,  nothing  in  creation  ap- 
pears to  be  worth  looking  at — but  the  moon — and  even  then 
there  are  shooting  pains,  here,  there,  and  everj^vhere. 

Now,  if  you  will  but  keep  clear  of  this  dreadful  '  ball- 
complaint,'  you  will  have  everything  about  you  that  can 
make  you  happy — good  parents,  a  three-pronged  saddle,  a 
thoroughbred  mare,  a  beautiful  cob,  a  little  pack  of  nine  puppies, 
a  rabbit  for  them  to  pursue  three  days  a  week,  Epsom  downs 
to  hunt  over,  and  possibly,  one  of  these  days,  a  very  old  man 
to  meet  you,  on  Pilgrim,  as  your  whipper-in. 

Now,  if  you  will  look  on  this  picture  and  on  that,  I  feel 
sure  you  will  resolve  to  continue  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of 
this  world,  and  abhor  fiddles  and  wax  candles. 

I  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Duff  Gordon, 

Yours  faithfully, 

F.  B.  Head." 

The  puppies  mentioned  in  Sir  Frank's  letter  were  rather 
a  mixed  company.  They  were  the  despair  of  the  keepers  of 
Claremont  Park,  into  which  they  got  through  a  hole  in  the 
palings,  while  I  climbed  over,  and  the  young  Princes  and  I 
hunted  rabbits.  As  to  my  cob,  he  became  famous  with  the 
Surrey  foxhounds  and  the  Due  d'Aumale's  harriers.  No  fence 
was  too  big  for  him,  no  ditch  too  vdde.  As  docile  as  he  was 
handsome,  he  learned  to  pick  up  my  glove  or  my  handkerchief 
when  I  dropped  them  and  turn  round  his  head  to  put  them 
into  my  hand.  When  I  said  Hop  I  he  reared  straight  up  and 
jumped  high  into  the  air,  a  performance  that  delighted  King- 
lake  and  alarmed  some  of  our  friends.  But  he  would  only  do 
it  for  me,  which  was  fortunate,  as  sometimes  Mrs.  Higford 
Burr  rode  him  when  she  stayed  with  us.  We  could  not  put 
her  upon  Celia,  who  would  have  pulled  the  slight,  delicate 
lady  over  her  head. 


REMINISCENCES  6i 

In  May,  1859,  my  father  took  me  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
his  old  tutor  Dr.  Hawtrey,  the  Provost  of  Eton,  one  of  the 
most  charming,  courteous  old  gentlemen  I  ever  met.  An 
elegant  scholar  and  a  man  of  wide  reading,  he  was  delightful 
company.  His  translations  of  English  poetry  into  Greek,  Latin, 
Italian,  and  German,  and  vice  versa,  are  excellent,  as  can  be 
seen  in  his  Irifoglio.  Mr.  Rogers  had  a  copy  printed  on  pink 
paper,  and  used  to  say  in  his  solemn,  fince  manner  :  "  It  is  all 
stained  with  the  blood  of  little  boys."  The  Provost's  house 
was  delightful.  Large  rooms  with  small  recesses  opening  out 
of  them  all  crammed  with  books,  for  Dr.  Hawtrey  had  a  fine 
library,  and  the  interesting  gallery  of  former  Etonians  on 
whom  the  dear  old  man  expatiated  as  products  of  his  beloved 
school.  The  only  thing  I  did  not  like  was  my  bedroom,  with 
a  huge  four-post  bed  and  a  heavy  curtain  in  one  corner, 
behind  which  I  discovered  an  iron  wicket  opening  on  to  a 
dark,  steep  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  without  a  lock.  However, 
I  forgot  all  about  it,  and  having  the  bad  habit  of  reading  in 
bed,  took  a  fine  old  edition  of  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs^  a  book 
I  had  never  seen,  to  look  at  in  bed.  The  horrible  engravings 
of  people  being  tortured,  crucified,  and  cut  to  pieces,  made 
me  feel  uncomfortable,  and  when  the  wind  rose  and  the  curtain 
bellied  out  into  the  room,  I  confess  I  was  rather  frightened, 
and  felt  glad  when  dawn  broke.  Dr.  Hawtrey  was  the  kindest 
and  most  gentle  of  men,  and  his  tender  devotion  to  his  poor 
invalid  sister  was  touching  to  see.  He  made  us  promise  to 
come  and  see  him  later  in  the  year  at  Maple  Durham,  his 
rectory,  before  we  said  good-bye. 

My  mother,  having  obtained  permission  to  wear  a  high 
dress,  presented  me  at  Court.  I  never  felt  more  shy  and 
frightened  in  my  life,  and  also  very  uncomfortable,  as  Lady 
Antrobus,  who  gave  me  my  presentation  dress,  insisted  on  my 
wearing  stays  (for  the  first  time),  and  having  my  hair  done 
fashionably.  My  train  was  so  terribly  in  the  way  that  my 
curtsey  to  Her  Majesty  must  have  been  very  ungraceful,  and 
I  let  my  glove  fall  just  in  front  of  the  Queen,  and  did  not 
dare  to  pick  it  up.  In  the  excitement  of  preparing  for  being 
presented  I  left  the  last  pages  of  my  translation  of  General 


62  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Todleben's  book  at  Esher,  and  wrote  to  Eothen  to  explain. 
He  answered  : — 

A.  W .  Kinglake  to  Janet  Duf  Gordon. 

12  St.  James's  Place,  1859. 
"  My  dearest  Janet, 

Fancy  your  apologizing  to  poor  dear  me.  If  you  do  this 
again  I  shall  call  you  '  Miss  Duff  Gordon,'  and  if  that  does 
not  frighten  you,  I  don't  know  what  will.  I  hope  soon  to 
make  a  rush  down  to  Esher.  Please  give  me  a  line  when  you 
are  going  to  be  absent,  in  order  that  I  may  not  choose  a  day 
when  you  are  elsewhere.  As  to  Lansdowne  House,  they  don't 
now  send  me  cards  for  those  festivities,  but  the  '  guardian  ' 
quite  approves  your  going  there. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

A.  W.  K." 

My  poor  father  was  victimized  by  having  to  take  me  to 
a  great  ball  at  Orleans  House,  Twickenham.  I  well  remember 
it,  as  the  Princess  Mary  of  Cambridge,  looking  splendidly 
handsome  with  a  wreath  of  purple  grapes  round  her  wavy 
hair,  collided  with  me  in  the  lancers  and  knocked  me  flat 
down  on  my  back.  She  was  dancing  with  the  Comte  de  Paris, 
I  with  his  nice,  jovial  brother,  Robert,  the  Due  de  Chartres. 
But  of  all  the  princes  of  the  Orleans  family  my  especial 
friend  was  the  Due  d'Aumale's  son,  the  young  Prince  de  Cond6. 
He  inherited  his  mother's  kindly,  charming  nature,  and,  alas, 
also  her  delicate  health. 

After  some  days  spent  in  August  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Higford 
Burr  at  Aldermaston,  we  went  to  Great  Marlow,  a  place  my 
father  had  known  as  a  boy.  The  landlady  of  the  small  inn  on 
the  river  resented  our  demand  for  two  rooms.  The  house  was 
full,  other  guests  were  expected,  we  had  not  written,  and  she 
scouted  the  idea  that  I  was  Miss  Duff  Gordon.  She  informed 
us  that  she  had  lived  in  titled  families,  and  never  heard  any 
young  lady  address  her  parent  as  "  dear  old  Boy,"  and  would 
never  have  dared  speak  so  to  her  own  father.    However,  she 


REMINISCENCES  63 

became  gracious  at  last,  and  we  passed  two  happy  days  rowing 
on  the  river  before  going  to  Maple  Durham.  There  Dr. 
Hawtrey  took  us  to  see  the  church,  Mr.  Blount's  house  and 
garden,  and  was  pleased  and  rather  astonished  at  my  intimate 
knowledge  of  Pope.  "  You  have  brought  her  up  well,"  he 
observed  to  my  father. 

At  Aldermaston  I  spent  many  of  the  happiest  days  of  my 
youth.  The  Squire,  in  spite  of  some  little  oddities,  was  kind- 
ness itself,  and  "  Janet  "  became  a  privileged  being  who  could 
do  many  things  forbidden  to  others.  One  reason  was  that  I 
was  punctual,  another  that  I  was  always  willing  to  get  up  at 
unearthly  hours  in  the  morning  and  go  out  fishing  with  him. 
His  wife,  clever,  sweet-tempered,  and  lovely,  the  best  and 
dearest  friend  I  ever  had,  was  adored  by  all  who  knew  her, 
except,  as  my  father  said,  by  women  who  were  jealous  of  her. 
She  painted  beautifully,  especially  she  copied  old  Italian 
frescoes  to  perfection.  Some  of  the  early  Arundel  prints  are 
reproductions  of  her  handiwork.  Many  a  good  friend  did  I 
make  at  Aldermaston.  Among  others  the  sculptress  Miss 
Durant,  a  handsome  and  clever  woman,  a  pupil  of  Baron  de 
Triqueti.  The  following  note  from  Layard  refers  to  my 
persuading  him  and  the  late  Bishop  of  Oxford  (Wilberforce) 
to  ride  with  me,  instead  of  going  demurely  in  the  carriage 
with  Mrs.  Burr  and  an  old  lady  to  see  some  house  in  the 
neighbourhood.  On  our  return  Layard  proposed  taking  a  short 
cut,  as  it  looked  threatening,  with  the  usual  result  that  we  lost 
our  way,  were  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  had  to  jump  several 
small  fences,  which  he  did  not  like  as  he  was  riding  a  coach- 
horse. 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Duf  Gordon. 

130  Piccadilly,  Sepember  2,  1859. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  am  glad  that  under  the  safe  guidance  of  Miss  Durant 
you  reached  London  in  safety  and  ultimately  found  your 
way  to  Esher.  I  am  afraid  our  artist  friend  has  found  an  angel 
in  a  wrong  quarter — the  eyes  would  suit  a  Sheitana  better. 


64  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  hope  you  were  satisfied  with  all  the  mischief  you  did  during 
your  short  stay  at  Aldermaston.  I  am  glad  you  were  none  the 
worse  for  your  wetting.  I  have  got  a  dreadful  lumbago  in  my 
shoulders,  and  must  expend  tuppense  on  a  poor  man's  plaister. 

If  Barante  has  twelve  volumes  I  should  certainly  not 
have  the  conscience  to  recommend  him  to  you.  It  is  very  long 
since  I  read  the  work,  and  I  almost  forget  its  length.  I  re- 
member thinking  it  very  interesting.  I  suspect  that  Barante 
and  Guizot  and  the  rest  will  return  to  the  shelves  when  the 
hounds  begin  to  meet  and  the  young  man  from  Melton  is  in 
the  saddle. 

If  you  behave  exceedingly  well,  I  will  endeavour  to  write 
to  you  from  Rome.  On  my  return,  after  paying  a  visit,  to 
which  you  know  I  am  pledged,  I  shall  come  and  see  you.  I 
hope  you  will  have  a  very  pleasant  and  happy  autumn.  We 
shall  often  talk  of  you  and  your  merry  doings.  Do  not  forget 
the  '  kranke  arme  Steer  '  (excuse  the  spelhng),  but  beheve  him 
ever  to  be, 

Your  very  affectionate 

Mr.  Bull." 

While  at  Aldermaston  the  Bishop  of  Oxford  told  a  wonderful 
ghost  story.  The  main  facts  I  recollect,  but  not  the  name  of 
the  place  or  of  the  people — if  he  ever  mentioned  them — and 
certainly  cannot  tell  it  as  did  the  Bishop  in  his  mellifluous, 
expressive  voice.  Arriving  late  at  an  old  country  house,  cele- 
brated for  its  fine  oak  staircase  and  wainscoted  passages  and 
rooms,  the  Bishop  had  only  time  to  dress  for  dinner  and  hurry 
downstairs.  There  was  a  large  party,  and  he  noticed  there 
was  a  vacant  chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Before  soup 
was  finished  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  of  whom  no  one  took 
any  notice,  came  quietly  in  and  sat  down.  The  Bishop  thought 
it  odd,  but  the  lady  of  the  house  was  pretty  and  amusing,  and 
though  rather  annoyed  that  his  chaplain  did  not  speak  to  his 
neighbour  and  talked  across  him  to  another  man,  devoted 
himself  to  his  hostess  and  a  very  good  dinner.  He  thought 
no  more  about  the  priest,  who  vanished  when  the  ladies  left 
the  room.    Then  he  asked  his  chaplain  why  he  had  not  spoken 


REMINISCENCES  65 

to  the  Catholic  priest.  The  answer  was  that  he  had  not  seen 
him,  whereupon  the  master  of  the  house  looked  uncomfortable 
and  changed  the  conversation.  The  Bishop  retired  early,  as 
he  had  letters  to  write,  and  a  sermon  or  an  address  for  the  next 
day,  and  was  hard  at  work  when  there  was  a  gentle  rap  at  the 
door  and  the  priest  walked  in.  Surprised  and  rather  put  out 
at  being  disturbed,  the  Bishop  asked  what  he  wanted,  and  the 
priest  answered  : — 

"  To  speak  to  you,  unless  I  alarm  you." 

"  Speak  ;  I  will  listen,"  said  the  Bishop. 

The  priest  sat  down,  and  in  a  low,  monotonous  voice  begged 
the  Bishop  to  cause  search  to  be  made  in  the  panelled  lobby 
for  certain  papers  relating  (as  far  as  I  remember)  to  the  succes- 
sion of  the  house  and  property.  "  One  of  the  panels,"  he  said, 
"  to  the  right  of  the  dining-room  door  is  movable  ;  in  the  recess 
behind  it  will  be  found  papers  which  I,  a  sinner,  helped  to  '  i/f — ^ 

conceal  there.  Never  have  I  rested  in  the  grave  since,  and  till 
now  have  found  no  man  who  would  listen  to  me."  vii.  1   '  ■'     < 

The  Bishop  informed  his  host  the  following  morning  of  ^   ^cHxr^ 
the  singular  visit,  and  persuaded  him  to  investigate  the  matter.  T  h\C 
On  carefully  tapping  the  wainscoting,  one  panel  was  found    "^  Co- 11  •    - 
to  give  a  hollow  sound,  and  after  many  attempts  a  secret 
spring  was  discovered.    The  panel  slid  back,  and  a  bundle  of 
discoloured  papers  was  found.     I  believe  the  branch  of  the 
family  to  which  they  related  had  long  died  out,  so  that  their     /vvu^i  i.  ■; 
discovery  made  no  difference  to  the  Bishop's  host,  save  that 
the  priest  no  longer  haunted  his  house  and  terrified  nervous 
guests. 

Layard  kept  his  promise  and  wrote  from  Italy  the  two 
following  letters  to  me,  which  give  an  interesting  picture  of 
Central  Italy  after  the  expulsion  of  the  Austrians  : — 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Du^  Gordon. 

Rome,  October  15,   1859. 

"  I  cannot  but  admit,  my  dear  Janet,  that  I  have  more 
than  deserved  the  scolding  I  have  received  for  not  writing 

F 


66  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

to  you.  The  excuse  that  I  have  to  make  is  not  that  I  have 
forgotten  you,  but  that  I  have  been  so  much  occupied  with 
pohtics  and  art  that  I  have  really  had  scarcely  any  time  to 
write  to  anyone.  When  I  take  my  run  abroad  for  a  couple 
of  months  I  usually  eschew  all  manner  of  letter-writing,  leaving 
my  afflicted  friends  in  darkness  as  to  my  m.ovements  and 
whereabouts  ;  so  I  beg  you  will  consider  my  epistle  as  a  special 
mark  of  favour.  I  am  sincerely  grieved  to  hear  that  your 
mother  has  been  so  unwell.  I  hope  she  will  take  good  advice, 
and  have  a  little  wholesome  care  of  herself.  I  have  long  felt 
anxious  about  her. 

It  is  really  a  month  since  I  left  England — and  yet  the 
time  has  passed  like  a  day.  I  have  seen  much  of  interest — 
more  so  than  usual,  even  in  Italy,  as  the  present  condition 
of  the  country  is  so  full  of  matter  for  consideration  and  hope. 
I  have  paid  various  visits  to  old  friends  at  Florence  and  new 
political  ones,  and  was  greatly  interested  in  the  condition  of 
Tuscany.  Since  the  expulsion  of  the  Grand-ducal  family  the 
Government  has  been  carried  on  with  admirable  vigour  and 
order.  Already  great  changes  have  been  made  in  those  details 
of  administration,  police,  passports,  custom-houses,  which 
are  so  odious  to  the  traveller  and  have  been  a  curse  to  Italy 
during  the  existence  of  Austrian  influence.  I  had  opportunities 
of  seeing  most  of  the  leading  men,  and  of  persuading  myself 
that  the  change  which  had  taken  place  was  a  strictly  popular 
one,  and  that  the  Tuscans  meant  to  persevere  in  the  course 
they  had  entered  upon,  in  spite  of  the  threats  and  intrigues  of 
the  French. 

I  met  Clanricarde  at  Florence,  and  saw  as  much  of  him 
as  I  could  during  the  few  hours  he  remained  there.  He  re- 
ceived good  information  as  to  what  was  going  on,  and  will,  I 
hope,  enlighten  people  in  England  on  the  true  state  of  Central 
Italy.  He  seems  quite  delighted  with  Garibaldi  (whom  I  hope 
to  see  on  my  way  back),  and  declares  that  a  dinner  with  the 
General  reminded  him  of  a  day  at  the  Gordon  Arms — such 
was  the  simplicity  and  amiability  of  that  charming  family 
(they  may  be  proud  of  the  comparison). 

From  Florence   I   came  to  Rome  by  the  shortest  sea  route. 


REMINISCENCES  e-j 

I  had  intended  making  a  tour  in  the  Abruzzi,  and  started  for 
the  frontier  at  Subiaco  ;  but  I  found  the  difficulties  of  travelHng 
so  great,   on   account   of  the   present   condition   of   political 
affairs  and  the  absence  of  high  roads,  that  I  have  given  up 
my  intention.    I  remained  a  week  at  Subiaco,  a  most  interesting, 
picturesque  old  city,  built  on  a  high  rock  jutting  out  in  a 
wooded  valley  of  the  Sabine  Hills.     There,  some  seventeen 
centuries  ago,  and  more,   Nero  had  a  villa,   the  remains  of 
which,  with  even  some  of  its  coloured  walls,  still  exist,  and, 
blocking  up  the  Anio,  turned  the  valley  into  a  series  of  lakes, 
whence  the  town  takes  its  name.     Truly  a  very  pleasant  and 
royal  country  residence  it  must  have  been.     Nero's  territories 
are  now  held  by  a  parcel  of  Benedictine  monks,  scarcely  less 
respectable  in  every  way  in  their  characters  ;  and  although 
they  have  allowed  his  villa  to  go  to  ruin,  they  still  eat  his 
good  trout   and   make   wine   of  his   grapes.     The  principal 
interest  of  the  place  to  me  consisted  in  two  ancient  convents 
and   churches    belonging   to    the    Benedictine    Order.      One 
church   is   built   over   the   spot   where    St.   Benedict   himself 
passed   the   greater   part   of  his   holy   existence — a   very  un- 
comfortable hole  in  the  rock,  in  a  very  lovely  position — so 
that  the  old  gentleman  showed  a  taste  for  the  beauties  of 
nature,  although  he  had  renounced  the  world  and  the  flesh. 
The   churches   are   very   remarkable    edifices,   on   account   of 
their  very  early  fresco  paintings,  some  dating  from  a  period 
preceding  by  half  a  century  the  time  generally  assigned  to 
the  revival  of  the  arts  in  Italy  by  the  Tuscan  schools — and 
on  account  of  the  presence  of  the  pointed  arch,  used  quite 
after  the  Gothic  fashion  as  early  probably  as  the  tenth  century, 
and  of  purely  Gothic  arches  and  tracery  of  about  a  century 
later.     (You  will  have  become  so  learned  now  that  you  have 
read  Fergusson,  that  you  will  understand  all  this,^)    I  am  now 
back  in  Rome,  having  returned  yesterday,  and  here  I  find  your 
friend  Delane,  with  whom  I  have  been  passing  the  day,  and 
from  whom  I  have  consequently  been  hearing  every  manner 
of  gossip.     I  shall  probably  remain  here  till  the  beginning  of 

Layard  had  given  me  Fergusson's  History   of  tArchitecture   before  he  left   for 
Italy. 


68  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

November,  and  then  return  to  Florence  by  land.  I  must 
make  some  visits  to  old  friends  and  be  kissed  as  usual. 

Your  first  letter  was  full  of  projected  balls,  races,  etc. 
These,  I  presume,  have  all  been  given  up  on  account  of  your 
mamma's  illness.  Although  I  do  not  admit  your  inference 
as  to  the  want  of  romance  in  my  character,  I  still  adhere  to 
my  opinion  of  the  advantage  of  the  eight  or  ten  thousand  a 
year  ;  and  I  hope  soon  to  see  you — as  the  Easterns  would 
say — the  mother  of  such  a  pleasant  income.  I  do  not  think 
you  have  quite  thrown  away  your  time  in  reading  the  books 
you  are  now  engaged  in.  You  will  probably  travel  one  of 
these  days,  and  you  will  then  find  the  advantage  of  feeling  an 
interest  in  all  you  see.  My  greatest  regret  had  always  been 
that  I  left  England  unprepared  for  travel — half  the  usefulness 
of  my  journeys  has  been  thrown  away, 

Fergusson's  book  is  valuable,  as  it  gives  you  a  general 
idea  of  architecture  without  going  into  details  uninteresting 
to  any  but  a  professional  reader.  Give  my  very  kind  regards 
to  your  father  and  mother.  Please  take  care  of  yourself  with 
the  filly,  and  do  not  play  tricks.  I  shall  be  back  early  in  De- 
cember, and  will  endeavour  to  write  to  you  again. 

Your  affectionate 

Mr.  Bull." 


A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Duf  Gordon. 

Milan,  November  21,  1859. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have  been  grumbling  consider- 
ably at  my  neglect  of  your  letters.  I  have  two  of  yours — 
nearly  a  month  old  ! — unanswered.  But  I  warned  you  not  to 
expect  a  punctual  correspondent.  I  have  really  been  so 
busy  seeing  people,  reading  political  documents,  and  looking 
about  me,  that  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  of  anyone  in 
England  ;  even  the  Ottoman  Bank,  which  suppHes  me  with 
that  which  is  dearest  to  me,  £  s.  d.,  has  been  almost  forgotten. 


REMINISCENCES  69 

I  had  intended  writing  to  you  from  Florence  ;  but  my  time 
there  was  entirely  taken  up — what  with  the  National  Assembly 
and  various  interesting  events. 

I  had  a  very  pleasant  journey  from  Rome  to  Florence, 
and  visited  my  old  friends  at  Perugia  and  Cortona,  and  sub- 
mitted to  the  usual  embracings.  It  is  really  a  source  of  im- 
mense pleasure  and  satisfaction  to  anyone  who  loves  Italy, 
and  wishes  her  to  take  the  place  to  which  she  is  entitled  amongst 
the  civilized  nations  of  the  world,  to  see  the  vast  change  for 
the  better  that  has  taken  place  since  the  degrading  and  brutal 
despotism  of  Austria  and  the  Pope  has  been  overthrown. 
Even  during  the  few  months  that  have  passed  since  the  breaking 
out  of  the  war,  the  start  which  Central  Italy  has  made  is 
wondertul,  and  is  an  earnest  of  what  will  be  done  if  the  Italians 
are  only  left  to  themselves.  No  custom-houses,  no  passports, 
no  hindrances  to  free  communication,  have  given  fresh  life 
to  Italy.  Railways  are  beginning  to  spread  over  the  country, 
and  a  wise  system  of  free  trade  will  soon  supersede  the  old 
system  of  protection  which  each  petty  state  pursued,  and 
which  paralysed  the  industry  of  the  people.  Notwithstanding 
the  reputation  which  the  Italians  have  so  unjustly  acquired 
in  the  other  parts  of  the  world,  they  are  now  shovdng  how 
admirably  fitted  they  are  for  liberal  institutions  and  self- 
government.  No  population  in  the  world  could  have  preserved 
order  as  the  Italians  of  Central  Italy  have  done,  without  a 
regular  government  and  under  every  provocation.  I  trust 
they  will  continue  to  do  so.  Garibaldi's  resignation  and 
withdrawal  will  remove  one  of  the  greatest  dangers.  For, 
although  an  admirable  chief  of  partisan  troops  in  war,  honest, 
brave,  and  single-minded,  he  is  a  dangerous  man  in  time  of 
peace  ;  and  his  headstrong  character,  worked  upon  by  design- 
ing men  and  by  the  Reds  at  such  a  critical  moment  as  the 
present,  might  have  led  to  the  most  serious  complications. 

I  was  present  at  the  sitting  of  the  Tuscan  Assembly 
when  the  Regency  of  the  Prince  of  Carignano  was  voted.  It 
was  a  most  interesting  sight,  the  proceedings  being  carried 
on  with  infinitely  more  decorum  and  dignity  than  any  business 
in  our  howling  House  of  Commons.     Instead  of  an  assembly 


70  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

composed  principally  of  empty-headed  young  aristocrats  and 
equally  empty-headed  millionaires,  who  are  the  representatives 
of  family  influence  and  demoralizing  bribery,  there  were 
collected  together  some  hundred  and  sixty  of  the  most  in- 
fluential, respectable,  and  intelhgent  men  in  Tuscany,  repre- 
senting equally  every  class,  sent  to  speak  in  the  name  of  the 
people  without  corruption  or  intimidation.  They  met  in  the 
magnificent  old  hall  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  painted  from 
ceihng  to  floor  by  Vasari  with  the  great  deeds  of  the  Medici 
family.  About  a  third  of  the  apartment  held  the  assembly 
upon  a  raised  dais ;  the  rest  was  filled  with  the  public,  who 
behaved  with  great  propriety.  Ladies  were  freely  admitted. 
The  speeches  were  short  and  to  the  point  ;  the  assembly 
maintained  the  strictest  order,  making  no  demonstration 
whatever. 

Ricasoli,  the  present  head  of  the  Tuscan  Government, 
is  a  man  of  the  highest  character  and  of  the  most  legitimate 
influence  in  his  country.  Descended  from  one  of  the  most 
ancient  families  of  Tuscany,  and  one  of  the  largest  of  her 
landed  proprietors,  he  has  devoted  his  influence  and  his 
wealth  to  the  improvement  of  her  agriculture  and  the  develop- 
ment of  her  resources.  At  the  head  of  the  Government  of 
the  Legations  and  the  Duchies  is  a  man  of  a  very  different 
stamp — Farini.  He  has  been  named  Dictator,  chiefly  from 
his  political  character,  and  for  his  known  energy  and  very 
liberal  views,  which  have  enabled  him  to  control  the  extreme 
Republican  party  so  dangerous  in  Central  Italy.  He  has 
shown  himself  a  man  of  decision  and  honesty.  I  was  much 
struck  by  his  conversation.  He  is  eloquent  and  somewhat 
theatrical,  after  the  manner  of  Italians.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  the  Italians  will  be  left  to  themselves.  If  any  attempt 
be  made  to  force  back  the  old  Princes  and  the  Pope,  the  results 
will  be  very  fatal,  as  the  people  are  exasperated  against  the 
priests.  This  fine  old  city  is  full  of  rejoicing.  The  only 
drawback  is  the  number  of  unfortunate  refugees  from  the 
Venetian  states,  in  which  the  Austrians  are  pursuing  their  old 
system  of  brutal  oppression. 

I   hope   my  lady  is   quite  well   again.     I   was   truly  grieved 


REMINISCENCES  71 

to  receive  such  bad  accounts  of  her  from  you.    Give  her  my 
kindest  regards. 

So  you  have  taken  to  read  in  bed  again.  All  the  lupin 
seed  in  the  world  will  not  save  your  complexion,  and  you  will 
become,  what  even  clever  women  don't  like  to  become,  a 
*  fright.'  I  shall  remain  here  two  or  three  days,  and  then  go 
on  to  Turin,  starting  from  thence  on  the  29th  for  Paris.  My 
kind  regards  to  your  father.    With  every  good  wish, 

Yours  affectionately, 

A.  H.  Layard." 


CHAPTER   V 

IN  November,  1859,  "^7  grandfather  Austin  fell  seriously 
ill.  It  was  a  terrible  time,  as  my  mother  was  far  from 
well,  and  my  father  was  in  Ireland  on  official  business. 
Twice  a  day  I  rode  over  to  Weybridge  to  see  my  grand- 
father, and  at  last  could  not  hide  from  my  mother  that  his 
condition  was  hopeless.  She  then  insisted,  in  spite  of  our 
doctor's  entreaties,  on  going  to  Nutfield  Cottage,  but  would 
not  allow  me  to  remain  there  with  her.  It  was  heart-breaking 
to  see  her  sitting  by  her  dying  father's  side,  as  white  as  marble, 
her  face  set  and  stern,  and  her  large  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 
At  the  last  she  sat  up  for  several  nights,  and  never  recovered 
the  chill  of  that  cold,  damp  house.  Mr.  Austin's  death  on 
December  17th  quite  prostrated  her,  and  she  had  a  violent 
attack  of  haemorrhage  from  the  lungs.  I  took  her  back  to 
Esher,  and  then  returned  to  look  after  my  grandmother,  who 
was  almost  beside  herself  with  grief.  She  kept  me  by  her 
bedside  for  a  whole  night  to  write  letters  to  various  people. 
Some  of  the  answers  I  received  contain  curious  traits  about 
my  grandfather,  while  all  spoke  of  his  noble  character  and  of 
his  wisdom.  Sir  WilHam  Erie,  one  of  his  truest  and  best 
friends,  wrote  : — 

Sir  William  Erie  to  Janet  Diif  Gordon. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Duff  Gordon, 

I  read  your  letter  telling  me  of  the  death  of  my  old 
friend  your  grandfather  with  sincere  sorrow.  I  knew  his 
remarkable  sense  and  worth  well.     In  this  life  they  were  not 

72 


REMINISCENCES  73 

appreciated  and  rewarded.  I  have  comfort  in  the  hope  and 
belief  that  he  has  passed  to  a  happier  existence.  I  beg  my 
kind  condolences  to  Mrs.  Austin,  and  I  beg  you  to  accept  my 
best  thanks  for  writing  to  me. 

Yours  faithfully, 

W.  Erle." 

4  Park  Crescent, 

ZOth  December,  1859." 

Some  time  afterwards  he  wrote  again,  saying  : — 

"  I  came  upon  a  mention  of  him  (Mr.  Austin)  in  the  Memoir 
of  Sir  John  Patterson,  which  I  think  might  have  some  interest 
in  showing  an  early  recognition  of  his  worth,  which  was 
so  lamentably  latent  during  his  life.  The  memoir  runs  : 
'  One  day  a  singular  man  entered  the  pupil  room  (at  Mr. 
Godfrey  Sykes',  where  Mr.  Patterson  was  studying)  for  the 
first  time,  and  presently  announced  to  his  companions  that 
he  had  come  there,  not  only  to  qualify  himself  as  a  special 
pleader,  but  to  study  and  elucidate  the  principles  of  Law. 
This  was  John  Austin.'  Not  unnaturally  the  others  smiled 
at  his  apparent  presumption,  but  as  the  late  Judge  used  to 
say,  '  we  were  wrong,  for  he  has  done  what  he  proposed,' 
adding  his  meed  of  praise  of  that  masterly  work  on  the  Province 
of  Jurisprudence.  This  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  making 
out  my  writing,  but  it  is  remarkable  as  showing  his  beginning 
with  a  set  purpose  for  principle  in  preference  to  practice, 
and  prevented  him  from  rivalling  his  brother  Charles  in 
making  money." 

Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill,  who  read  Roman  Law  with  my 
grandfather  in  1821  and  at  the  same  time  studied  German 
with  Mrs.  Austin,  of  whom  he  was  then  very  fond  and  always 
wrote  to  as  Liebes  Mutterlein,  never  even  mentions  her  in 
the  following  letter  to  me.  I  saw  that  the  evidently  intentional 
slight  cut  her  to  the  heart. 


74  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

John  Stuart  Mill  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon. 

"  Dear  Madam, 

I  have  only  just  received  your  note  informing  me  of 
the  death  of  one  of  the  men  whom  I  most  valued,  and  to 
whom  I  have  been  morally  and  intellectually  most  indebted. 
I  had  learned  the  sad  news  some  weeks  ago  from  the  Athenceum^ 
and  it  was  a  greater  shock  to  me  as  the  characteristic  vigour 
of  his  assumption  of  authorship  last  winter  had  made  me  hope 
that  his  health  had  undergone  a  decided  improvement  and 
that  the  termination  of  his  career  was  still  far  distant.^ 

I  believe  that  few  persons,  so  little  known  to  the  common 
world,  have  left  so  high  a  reputation  with  the  instructed  few  ; 
and  though  superficially  he  may  seem  to  have  accomplished 
little  in  comparison  with  his  powers,  few  have  contributed 
more  by  their  individual  influence  and  their  conversation 
to  the  formation  and  the  growth  of  a  number  of  the  most 
active  minds  of  this  generation. 

For  myself  I  have  always  regarded  my  early  knowledge  of 
him  as  one  of  the  fortunate  circumstances  of  my  life.      I  am 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

J.  S.  Mill." 

The  dear  Provost  of  Eton  wrote,  and  to  my  great  relief 
appeared  at  Weybridge  soon  after  the  delivery  of  his  letter. 

Dr.  Hawtrey  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon. 

The  Lodge,  Eton,  December  20th,  1859. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  cannot  tell  you  with  what  sorrow  I  heard  of  the  loss 
which  you  have  had,  and  how  deeply  I  feel  for  Mrs.  Austin. 
Your  very  distinguished  grandfather  was  one  of  the  wisest 

'  \A  Plea  for  I'le  Comtitut'icn,  a  pamphlet  bv  Mr.  Austin  published  early  in 
1859. 


REMINISCENCES  75 

and  most  right-minded  men  I  ever  knew  ;  and,  what  is  more 
remarkable  (for  the  world  is  unjust),  I  never  met  with  anyone 
who  had  the  Pleasure  and  Honour  of  his  Friendship,  or  even 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  whose  Opinion  was  worth  having, 
who  did  not  so  esteem  him. 

It  has  latterly  been  only  seldom  that  I  have  been  able  to 
enjoy  this  privilege  of  seeing  and  conversing  with  him  (for 
I  always  thought  it  a  high  Privilege),  but  I  have  always  lived 
in  the  Hope  of  doing  so  ;  and  I  look  back  on  the  few  days 
which  he  has  from  time  to  time  given  me  at  Eton  as  among 
the  brightest  of  my  life. 

He  will  cause  a  painful  void  among  his  many  friends  ; 
but  with  this  comfort,  which  such  men  always  leave  behind 
them,  that  they  will  all  love  to  recall  his  Words  and  Thoughts, 
and  thus  in  a  manner  reaUze  the  Past ;  and  among  those 
friends  none  will  feel  this  more  than  myself. 

I  am  unavoidably  detained  here  to-day  ;  but  I  have  a  strong 
desire  to  come  over  to  Weybridge  to-morrow,  not  to  press 
myself  upon  you,  but  simply  to  see  whether  (as  your  father 
is  absent  and  Lady  Duff  Gordon  and  Mrs.  Austin  are  so 
unwell)  I  can  be  of  any  possible  use.  Have  no  scruple  about 
me  if  I  can  not.  At  least  I  shall  have  the  Gratification  of 
knowing  myself  to  have  been  at  hand  in  the  sorrow  of  those 
for  whom  I  have  so  sincere  a  regard.  I  have  been  absent  from 
home,  and  have  therefore  only  to-day  seen  your  letter.  I  am, 
my  dear  Janet, 

Very  affectionately  yours, 

E.  C.  Hawtrey." 

M.  Guizot's  letter  is  characteristic.  There  is  more  about 
himself  in  it  than  about  his  friends,  and  he  never  mentions 
my  grandfather  at  all  : — 

M.  Guizot  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon. 

Val  Richer,  21  Decembre,  1859. 
"  My  dear  Janet,  vous  m'avez  donne  de  bien  tristes  nouvelles, 
et  pourtant  je  vous  remercie.  J'aime  mieux  partager  les  tristesses 


•jd  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

de  mes  amis  que  ne  rien  savoir  d'eux  et  de  leur  sort.  J'espere 
que  le  courage  de  votre  grand'mere  soutiendra  sa  force  ; 
et  que  la  sante  de  votre  mere  se  retablira  tout  a  fait.  Lady 
Gordon  ne  sait  peut-etre  pas  combien  est  affectueux  le  souvenir 
que  je  lui  garde.  C'est  chez  elle  qu'apres  mon  arrivee  a 
Londres,  en  1848,  j'ai  trouve  pour  la  premiere  fois,  avec  mes 
enfans,  un  vrai  petit  diner,  d'amis,  et  presque  de  famille. 

Parlez-moi  de  votre  grand'mere,  my  dear  Janet  ;  elle  n'a, 
ni  en  France,  ni  en  Angleterre,  point  de  plus  sincere  ami  que 
moi. 

Ne  vous  inquietez  pas  de  mes  questions  ;  vous  etes  bien 
bonne  de  les  avoir  envoyees  au  Professeur  Pillans.  Croyez  a 
la  vraie  affection  d'un  vieil  ami. 

GuizoT." 

In  a  long  letter  to  me  Sir  John  Romilly  said  :  "  The  loss 
wall  be  deeply  felt  by  all  his  friends  who  used,  even  when 
they  did  not  see  him,  to  enquire  what  his  opinions  were  on 
the  subject  of  all  questions  of  interest,  political  or  social, 
moral  or  intellectual." 

Layard  wrote  grieving  that  a  good  and  true  man  had  gone 
from  among  us,  and  Mr.  Fitzjames  Stephen  deploring  the 
death  of  one  of  his  father's  most  valued  and  best  friends. 
Mr.  Nassau  Senior  lamented  the  loss  of  a  friend  of  forty  years' 
standing,  and  later  he  told  me  that  he  had  spent  an  evening 
with  M.  Guizot,  who  talked  of  the  friends  he  had  made  when 
ambassador  in  London  in  1840.  "  Guizot  only  mentioned 
the  dead.  Hallam,  Sydney  Smith,  John  Austin,  and  Macaulay. 
As  an  original  thinker  he  seemed  to  put  your  grandfather 
above  them  all ;  as  a  man  of  learning,  Hallam  ;  as  a  companion, 
Sydney  Smith  ;  as  a  man  of  information,  Macaulay.  He  said 
he  had  been  over  Westminster  Abbey  with  Macaulay,  who 
knew  the  biography  of  the  tenant  of  every  tomb,  and  could 
repeat  the  finest  passages  of  the  works  of  all  those  whose  busts 
are  in  Poets'  Corner.  Every  one  of  these  men,  he  continued, 
might  be  considered  as  a  candidate  for  pre-eminence  in  the 
literary  world  and  expected  to  show  the  mutual  jealousy  of 
men  of  letters.    There  was  not  a  shadow  of  it.    Austin's  health 


REMINISCENCES  77 

kept  him  out  of  the  great  world,  but  the  others  lived  in  it  as 
simply,  as  unpretendingly,  and  with  as  much  mutual  affection 
as  if  the  idea  of  rivalry  had  never  occurred  to  them." 

Lord  Macaulay  and  Mr.  Hallam  died  in  that  same  year 
(1859).  -for  some  time  Mr.  Hallam  had  been  a  mere  wreck, 
and  it  was  painful  to  see  his  fine  intellect  dimmed.  But 
Macaulay's  health,  though  by  no  means  good,  had  not  in- 
spired his  friends  with  the  fear  that  they  were  to  lose  him  so 
soon.  He  was  a  wonderful  man,  so  learned  and  so  kind. 
He  seemed  to  place  whoever  he  was  talking  to  on  a  level  with 
himself.  Even  to  me,  a  young  girl,  he  would  say,  "  Don't 
you  remember  ?  "  And  when  I  said,  "  No,"  he  would  quote 
the  title  of  a  book  I  never  heard  of,  the  number  of  the  page 
and  the  line,  advising  me  to  read  it.  After  seeing  him  I 
always  realized  how  utterly  ignorant  I  was.  What  memory 
I  have  I  owe  to  him.  He  inculcated  on  me  the  importance  of 
trusting  to  it  and  not  writing  down  what  I  wished  to  re- 
member. 

The  fresco  mentioned  in  the  following  letter  is  the  one 
in  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  at  the  risk  of  getting  into  hot  water, 
like  my  dear  impulsive  friend  Layard,  I  must  say  that  I  do 
not  think  any  one  of  the  then  living  artists  could  have  done 
so  fine  a  work. 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Du^  Gordon. 

Aldermaston,  January  2,  i860. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

...  I  am  glad  you  liked  my  letter  about  Watts's  fresco. 
It  is  very  likely  to  get  me  into  hot  water  with  the  artists. 
I  have  already  had  a  taste  in  the  shape  of  a  very  long  and  angry 
letter  from  one  very  distinguished  member  of  the  profession. 
Artists  are  the  most  jealous  and  irritable  of  men.  I  had  hoped 
that  I  had  so  carefully  worded  my  letter  as  to  avoid  giving 
offence  to  anyone,  and  certainly  had  no  intention  of  drawing 
invidious  comparisons  between  Watts  and  any  other  painter. 
But  I  am  always  getting  into  hot  water  with  somebody. 


78  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  hope,  at  any  rate,  that  my  letter  will  have  the  effect  of  calling 
public  attention  to  this  great  work. 

I  am  glad  Kinglake  obeyed  his  orders.  You  must  be  proud 
of  the  readiness  of  your  many  slaves  to  do  your  biddings. 

At  Torquay  I  was  very  unfortunate,  scarcely  seeing  the 
sun  whilst  there,  and  it  is  just  the  place  where  one  wants 
the  sun.  The  blue  sea,  the  red  cHffs,  and  the  rich  green  vege- 
tation must  form  a  beautiful  contrast  in  bright  sunlight. 
My  lecture  went  off  very  well  and  enabled  me  to  give  nearly 
j^40  to  the  Mechanics'  Institute.  I  begin  to  think  that  I 
ought  to  turn  lectures  to  my  own  account  and  make  a 
little  fortune  like  Thackeray. 

Ever,  my  dear  Janet, 

Your  affectionate 

A.  H,  Layard." 

To  my  great  delight  and  pride  my  Poet  proposed  that 
I  should  translate  Herr  von  Sybel's  Geschichte  und  Literatur 
der  Kreuzzuge  for  Chapman  and  Hall,  on  condition  that  it 
should  be  published  as  edited  by  my  mother,  her  name  being 
so  well  known.  I  set  to  work  with  a  will,  but  there  were  ten 
pages  of  "  heroic  "  poetry  which  quite  baffled  me.  As  usual, 
dear  Tom  Taylor  came  to  the  rescue  and  turned  the  three 
ballads  into  swinging  English  rhyme.  The  History  and  Litera- 
ture of  the  Crusades  was  finished  in  about  ten  months,  but 
only  came  out  in  1861. 

On  February  loth,  i860,  Kinglake,  always  bent  on  improving 
his  "  ward's  "  mind,  took  me  to  hear  Mr.  Gladstone's  budget 
speech  in  which  he  announced  the  treaty  of  commerce 
concluded  by  Mr.  Cobden.  The  House  was  crowded,  and. 
a  storm  of  applause  greeted  his  graceful  reference  to  Mr. 
Cobden. 

Later  Lord  Lansdowne  took  me  to  see  the  opening  of 
Parliament  by  the  Queen,  a  gorgeous  spectacle.  I  was  in- 
terested and  amused,  and  afterwards  made  the  old  Marquis 
laugh  by  imitating  the  pretty  speeches  addressed  to  me,  as 
an  evident   favourite   of  his,   by  various^  fi^ne  ladies.     Lord 


REMINISCENCES  79 

Lyndhurst,  who  was  always  kind  to  me  on  account  of  the 
love  he  bore  my  grandfather's  memory,  told  me  he  was  going 
to  make  a  speech,  probably  for  the  last  time,  and  would  send 
me  a  ticket.  The  21st  May  was  his  eighty-eighth  birthday,  and 
he  left  a  family  party  to  speak  on  the  Paper  Duties  Bill.  No 
young  man  could  have  surpassed  the  fire  and  acuteness  with 
which  he  maintained  the  right  of  the  Lords  to  reject  a  Bill 
involving  a  remission  of  taxation.  He  never  hesitated  or 
repeated  himself. 

The  review  in  Hyde  Park  of  twenty  thousand  volunteers 
by  the  Queen  in  June  was  a  fine  sight  and  roused  the  John 
Bull  spirit  among  the  people.  "  We'll  lick  the  Froggies," 
"  My  Alfred  could  beat  three  of  those  Frenchmen,"  were 
comments  one  heard  on  all  sides.  When  the  review  was  ended, 
such  a  cheer  went  up  from  the  ranks  that  it  brought  the  tears 
into  my  eyes.  Surrey  of  course  had  its  volunteers,  and  in 
August  my  mother  presented  a  bugle  to  the  6th  Surrey  Rifles. 
Fortunately  the  day  was  fine.  She  made  a  capital  speech, 
concocted  by  herself  and  Tom  Taylor,  and  looked  extremely 
handsome  and  imposing  as  she  stood  on  a  raised  dais  on  the 
village  green.    She  said  : — 

*'  Captain  Fletcher,  Officers  and  Men  of  the  6th  Surrey 
Rifles  Volunteers,  the  ladies  of  Esher  and  the  neighbour- 
hood have  desired  me  to  present  to  your  corps  a  silver  bugle, 
subscribed  for  by  them. 

We  earnestly  hope  that  it  may  never  sound  but  for  your 
training  in  those  martial  exercises  by  which  you  are  qualifying 
yourselves  to  act  as  our  defenders.  But  if  the  day  should 
come  when  its  notes  must  ring  out  on  a  field  of  battle,  I 
assure  you — in  the  name  of  the  subscribers  to  this  bugle — 
how  confident  we  feel  that  it  will  stir  up  true  and  gallant 
hearts,  ready  to  shed  their  blood  in  defence  of  our  country, 
of  our  freedom,  and  of  the  Queen,  who  so  faithfully  serves 
and  so  truly  represents  our  happy  constitution — that  con- 
stitution which  has  fostered  the  spirit  of  unanimity  and  self- 
reliance,  which  has  once  more  called  out  the  Volunteers  of  old 
England. 

Already  a   moral   triumph   has   been   achieved  ;   the  frank 


8o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

assurances  o£  renewed  friendship,  lately  made  to  our  Govern- 
ment by  the  French  Emperor,  prove  that  the  British  nation 
has  found  the  way  to  win  his  regard.  Let  us  on  no  account 
relax  in  our  efforts  to  deserve  it ! 

*  Defence,  not  Defiance,'  is  your  watchword  ;  but  should 
an  enemy  ever  stand  on  these  shores  and  so  Defence  become 
Defiance,  may  this,  our  bugle,  be  the  first  to  sound  the  '  Ad- 
vance '  and  the  last  to  sound  the  '  Retreat.'  " 

An  amusing  story  which  was  going  the  round  of  the  Paris 
salons  was  sent  to  us  about  a  scene  at  the  death-bed  of  Prince 
Jerome  Buonaparte.  Prince  Napoleon  (Plon-Plon)  went  to 
enquire  how  his  father  was  and  insisted  on  going  into  his 
room.  The  doctor  begged  him  not  to  disturb  the  dying  man, 
adding  that  he  probably  would  not  recognize  him.  Hearing 
a  step  Prince  Jerome  murmured  : — 

"  Est-ce  toiy  mon  brave  P  " 

"  Vous  voyez^  monseigneur,  le  Prince  ne  vous  reconnati  pas,^' 
dryly  remarked  the  doctor. 

My  father  and  I  went  to  Aldermaston  and  took  our  horses 
with  us  by  rail ;  he  had  long  planned  that  we  should  ride 
back  from  there,  making  our  way  as  best  we  could.  Layard 
came  down,  at  the  same  time  bringing  an  old  friend  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  made  years  before  at  Mosul  on  the 
Tigris.  Mr.  Ross  sat  next  to  me  at  dinner  and  told  me  stories 
about  pig-sticking.  How  once  when  his  horse  put  his  foot 
in  a  hole  and  rolled  over  with  him,  the  wild  boar  turned  upon 
him,  and  would  have  gored,  and  perhaps  killed  him,  had  not 
Layard  galloped  up  and  drawn  the  beast's  attention  off ; 
about  the  excavations  they  had  done  together  at  Nineveh  ; 
and  the  wild  life  among  the  Yezidis.  So  wonderfully  vivid 
a  raconteur  I  had  never  met,  and  longing  to  hear  more,  I  asked 
him  to  come  to  Esher  on  his  return  from  Scotland.  My 
father  and  I  started  for  our  long  ride  early  in  the  morning 
and  only  reached  home  in  time  for  dinner.  I  believe  it  was 
between  fifty  and  sixty  miles,  but  neither  the  horses  nor  our- 
selves were  overtired.  In  September  I  persuaded  Kinglake 
to  come  down  to  Esher,  as  his  eyes  had  been  troubling  him  for 
some  time,  and  proposed  that  I  should  be  his  secretary.    He 


REMINISCENCES  8i 

insisted  on  taking  a  lodging,  but  spent  every  evening  uith 
us,  when  my  mother  and  he  talked  by  the  hour  together. 
In  the  morning  I  went  to  him  and  he  declared  I  did  my  work 
well,  but  my  pride  was  lowered  when  he  added  :  "  Some- 
times, my  dear  Janet,  you  even  improvise  a  sentence  before 
I,  in  my  slow  way,  have  decided  what  to  say."  My  rapid 
improvisations  were,  I  am  bound  to  admit,  generally  altered, 
and  often  entirely  rejected.  He  brought  a  horse  and  in  the 
afternoons  we  used  to  ride  merrily  over  the  commons.  He 
and  Meredith  often  met  at  dinner  at  the  "  Gordon  Arms," 
but  I  do  not  think  they  cared  much  for  each  other.  Both 
were  shy  in  different  ways,  and  both  were  at  their  best  when 
alone  with  one  or  two  friends.  Eothen's  pla)'f ul  wit  and  quaint 
way  of  saying  things  were  reserved  for  his  intimates  ;  when 
strangers  were  there,  or  people  who  were  not  congenial  to 
him,  he  was  absolutely  silent.  My  Poet,  in  the  early  days 
when  I  saw  so  much  of  him,  was  a  delightful  companion 
when  he  knew  he  was  liked  ;  before  strangers  his  shyness  took 
the  form  of  asserting  himself  rather  loudly,  and  trying  to  be 
epigrammatic  and  witty  ;  he  gave  one  the  impression  that  he 
was  not  quite  sure  on  what  footing  he  stood. 

In  September  Layard  went  to  Italy  and  wrote  to  me  : — 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Du-ff  Gordon. 

Venice,  October  2,  i860. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  received  two  letters  from  you  and  have  hitherto 
answered  neither,  not  a  very  amiable  return  for  your  kindness. 
...  I  have  been  rummaging  about  in  various  holes  and  corners 
in  search  of  something  to  throw  away  my  money  upon.  I 
have  only  succeeded  in  finding  one  picture  which  is  worth 
having  and  within  my  means.  It  is  attributed  to  Palma 
Vecchio,  and  may  or  may  not  be  by  him,  but  I  think  you  will 
like  it.  The  subject  is  St.  George  and  the  damsel  he  has 
delivered  kneeling  down  to  return  thanks  over  the  vanquished 
dragon.    She  has  a  grand  Venetian  head,  like  Palma's  daughter. 


82  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

who  is  so  often  represented  in  his  pictures.  I  have  seen  one 
or  two  other  things  I  should  hke  to  have,  but  travellers  spoil 
the  market  by  giving  absurd  prices  for  worthless  things.  .  .  . 
Venice  was  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  yesterday  at  the 
news  of  the  capture  of  Ancona,  and  of  that  goose  Lamoriciere. 
But  the  Austrians  have  made  the  most  extensive  preparations 
for  defence  and  to  keep  down  the  population — so  that  any 
attempt  at  a  rising  or  an  invasion  by  Garibaldi  would  be  an 
act  of  madness.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Italians  will  be 
prudent,  and  not  allow  themselves  to  be  induced  by  Garibaldi 
to  sacrifice  the  best  hopes  they  have  ever  had  of  national 
Hberty  and  independence  by  an  insane  attack  upon  Austria 
or  France.  Knowing  how  weak  and  impulsive  a  man  Garibaldi 
is,  and  how  surrounded  by  the  very  worst  class  of  men,  I  am 
greatly  alarmed  at  the  prospect.  Have  you  read  the  absurd 
accounts  of  that  mountebank  Alexandre  Dumas,  installed  in 
a  palace  at  Naples,  with  the  royal  attendants  and  a  guard  of 
honour,  as  head  of  the  museums  ?  These  things  are  so  absurd 
that  one  almost  fancies  Garibaldi  has  met  with  the  fate  of 
Masaniello  now  that  he  has  got  Naples.  Cavour  is  the  only 
man  vdio  can  save  Italy  ;  and  I  hope  the  good  sense  of  the 
nation,  and  there  is  plenty  of  it,  will  see  this.  Garibaldi's 
conduct  is  already  exciting  great  alarm. 

I  was  very  much  delighted  with  the  New  Museums  at 
Berlin,  which  are  by  far  the  finest  public  buildings  I  have 
seen,  as  far  as  internal  decoration  is  concerned.  The  arrange- 
ment of  the  collections  is  also  admirable.  I  was  for  a  few 
days  at  Munich,  so  I  have  had  a  good  look  at  the  principal 
German  art  collections. 

I  hope  Kinglake  will  profit  by  a  quiet  sojourn  at  Esher. 
Give  him  my  kind  regards,  if  he  be  with  you.  My  plans 
are  still  very  unsettled,  and  I  may,  after  all,  have  to  go  to 
Constantinople.  I  am  now  waiting  for  letters  which  will 
decide  my  fate.  If  I  go  it  will  be  within  a  week  of  this.  If, 
as  I  hope,  my  visit  can  be  deferred  to  the  spring,  I  intend  to 
go  to  Florence  before  returning  to  England.  You  will,  of 
course,  hear  what  I  may  eventually  do.  I  am  very  sorry  to 
hear  so  poor  an  account  of  your  mother.     I  hope  she  will 


REMINISCENCES  83 

take  good  care  of  herself  and  avoid  cold  during  the  winter. 
Kindest  regards  to  the  baronet  and  mylady.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  them  or  for  you  ? 

Yours  affectionately, 

A.  H.  Layard." 

I  always  had  a  great  ambition  to  hunt  with  the  Surrey 
staghounds,  but  my  usual  chaperons,  dear  "  Signor  "  and 
Mr.  Izod,  were  faithful  to  the  Due  d'Aumale's  harriers  and 
the  Surrey  foxhounds,  so  Lord  Clanricarde  promised  to  come 
to  Esher  one  day  and  take  me.  Trusting  to  be  able  to  hire  a 
horse  at  Kingston,  he  did  not  bring  his  own.  Not  one  was  to 
be  had,  and  my  father's  mare  was  in  foal,  so  our  groom  sug- 
gested hiring  a  horse  our  butcher  had  bought,  which  had,  he 
believed,  been  hunted,  but  was  blind  of  one  eye.  Mounted 
on  this  Rosinante  Lord  Clanricarde  seemed  perfectly  happy, 
and  never  did  I  see  such  an  exhibition  of  perfect  horsemanship. 
The  brute  blundered  at  his  fences  and  went  into  several 
ditches  instead  of  over  them,  while  Clanricarde  sat  light 
as  a  feather  and  as  elegant  as  a  figure  out  of  the  Elgin  marbles, 
aiding  his  horse  with  a  matchless  hand,  and  talking  to  me  as 
though  he  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair. 

One  October  day  the  Comte  de  Paris  was  riding  a  new 
horse  with  the  harriers.  I  saw  the  beast  had  no  mouth  and 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  begged  him,  but  in  vain,  to  change 
horses  with  me.  In  the  fir  wood  behind  Claremont,  while 
the  hounds  were  running  fast,  the  Prince  passed  me  like  a 
flash  of  lightning,  and  I  felt  sure  some  accident  would  happen. 
I  galloped  by  another  path  in  the  hope  of  intercepting  him, 
and  as  I  passed  the  Due  de  Nemours  I  called  out  to  him  that 
his  nephew's  horse  had  bolted,  and  that  he  had  better  find 
Mr.  Izod,  who  was  following  the  hounds,  in  case  he  was  wanted. 
A  little  further  I  saw  the  riderless  horse  and  caught  it,  giving 
it  to  a  boy  to  hold  while  I  searched  for  the  Comte  de  Paris. 
He  had  been  dashed  against  a  tree,  and  was  lying  on  the  ground 
with  a  broken  leg.  I  halloed  as  loud  as  I  could,  and  the  Due 
d'Aumale,  the  Due  de  Nemours,  and  the  Prince  de  Joinville 


84  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

soon  came  up  with  Mr.  Izod.  He  sent  me  off  post-haste  to 
his  surgery  to  fetch  bandages.  It  was  raining  hard,  and  for- 
tunately I  had  on  a  waterproof  cloak,  which  Avas  put  under 
the  Prince  whilst  the  doctor  tied  his  broken  leg  to  the  other 
and  arranged  a  sort  of  litter  to  carry  him  home.  The  huntsman 
had  the  key  of  the  side  gates  into  Claremont  Park  and  gave 
it  to  me,  as  by  going  through  I  cut  off  a  corner.  As  I  passed 
near  the  house  it  struck  me  that  if  the  old  Queen  Marie  Amelie 
by  chance  saw  her  grandson  being  brought  home  on  a  hurdle 
it  would  give  her  a  terrible  shock,  and  remind  her  of  the  death 
of  his  father.  So  I  pulled  up  at  the  back  door  and  made  one 
of  the  maids  call  her  faithful  old  servant.  When  I  told  him 
of  the  accident  he  burst  into  tears,  and  declared  the  Prince 
must  be  dead  and  that  I  was  hiding  the  truth  from  him. 
I  gave  him  my  word  of  honour  that  the  Comte  de  Paris  was 
not  dead,  but  had  only  broken  a  leg,  told  him  to  prepare  the 
Queen,  and  then  galloped  off  to  the  village,  got  the  things 
Mr.  Izod  wanted,  and  returned  to  Claremont.  Soon  after- 
wards Mr.  Ross  came  to  Esher,  but  did  not  find  my  mother, 
who  had  already  gone  to  Ventnor.  My  great-aunt.  Miss 
Austin,  was  staying  with  us  to  do  "  propriety  "  for  me,  which 
I  am  afraid  she  did  not  find  an  easy  task.  I  took  Mr.  Ross  out 
wdth  the  Due  d'Aumale's  harriers,  and  was  much  impressed 
by  his  admirable  riding,  his  pleasant  conversation,  and  his 
kindly  ways.  The  result  w^as  that  I  promised  to  marry  him, 
to  the  dismay  of  many  of  my  friends,  who  did  not  at  all 
approve  of  my  going  to  live  in  Egypt.  I  at  once  wrote  to 
Eothen,  who  answered  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Du-ff  Gordon. 

Wilton  House,  Taunton,  November  i,  i860. 

"  My  dearest  Janet, 

I  thought  it  was  the  duty  of  a  young  lady  to  cast 
down  the  eyelids,  tremble  slightly,  falter  out  '  Speak  to 
my  guardian,'  and  then  bring  back  her  lips  to  the  state  in 


REMINISCENCES  85 

which  they  say  '  plum,'  but  I  have  never  heard  a  word  from 
Mr.  Ross.  Is  it  serious  ?  Where  are  the  young  couple  going 
to  live  ?  Don't  expect  your  guardian  to  consent  to  your  living 
at  Alexandria. 

Always  your  affectionate 

A.  W.  K." 

When  I  answered  that  it  really  was  serious,  he  answered 
a  few  lines  ending  with  "  kindest  regards,"  which  I  resented, 
and  he  then  wrote  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Duf  Gordon. 

12  St.  James's  Place,  November  25,  i860. 

"  My  dearest  Janet, 

It  was  not  from  coldness  that  I  put  '  regards,'  but 
such  is  the  complicating  effect  of  the  odd  institution,  of  mar- 
riage that,  although  I  never  saw  him  but  once  in  my  life, 
I  am  obliged  to  think  of  the  question,  '  What  would  Mr.  Ross 
say  ?  ' 

I  have  not,  and  don't  pretend  to  have,  the  noble  unselfish- 
ness of  Alexander,  and  I  can't  be  in  a  good  humour  with  a 
marriage  which  takes  you  away  from  England.  How  am  I 
ever  to  find  my  way  to  the  Gainsborough  Lane  ?  ^  Every 
peasant  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Esher  will  so  miss  you. 

Your  affectionate 

A.  W.  K." 

Mr.  Ross  wanted  to  give  me  jewels,  but  I  asked  him  to 
let  me  spend  the  money  in  books,  and  we  bought  many  at 
Willis  and  Sotheran's,  who  were  to  pack  and  send  them  out 
to  Alexandria.  My  Poet  mentioned  some  I  ought  to  have, 
and  as  I  was  going  to  my  mother  at  Ventnor,  I  begged  him, 
when  in  London,  to  order  them  to  be  packed  with  the  others. 
He  wrote  : — 

^  A  beautiful  lane  through  the  woods,  so  like  one  of  Gainsborough's  pictures 
that  wc  named  it  after  him. 


86  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

George  Meredith  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon. 

Copsham,  Esher,  Friday  evening,  November,  i860. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

Yesterday  I  went  to  town,  and  of  course  forgot — 
not  you — but  your  catalogue.  I  therefore  called  on  Willis 
and  What's-his-name  and  asked  the  latest  period  of  the 
packing.  Thereupon  a  melancholy  man  conducted  me  to  an 
enormous  box.  *  That's  choke  full,  sir,  and  we've  got  forty 
more  volumes  to  stow  in — somehow — /  don't  know  how.' 
This  was  my  time  to  tell  him  that  you  had  bought  half  of 
Mudie's  Library,  and  expected  that  as  well  to  be  got  into  the 
said  box. — Why,  wouldn't  my  Henry  do  it  ? — Yes,  but,  my 
dear  Janet,  WilHs  and  What's-his-name  aren't  in  love  with 
you,  and  they  can't.  Passion  does  not  inspire  them.  As  for 
your  poet,  he  sinks  to  the  lowest  depths  of  prose,  and  suggests 
the  necessity  for  a  fresh  box,  a  small  one,  in  addition  to  the 
one  of  elephantine  proportions  and  yet  unequal  stomach. 
You  are  to  write  to  me  and  say  that  you  consent  to  this, 
and  I  will  call  on  W.  and  W.  If  this  is  clear,  all  right.  But 
I  feel  utterly  perplexed. 

I  have  been,  and  am,  knocked  down  again  by  the  old 
illness.    I  hope  it  won't  last,  for  it's  horridly  dispiriting. 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  girl.  If  you  don't  make  a  good  wife, 
I've  never  read  a  page  of  woman.  He's  a  lucky  fellow  to  get 
you,  and  the  best  thing  he  can  do  is  to  pray  that  he  may  always 
know  his  luck.  Watts  and  Coutts  (the  huntsman  of  the  Due 
d'Aumale's  harriers)  passed  like  doleful  spectres  this  afternoon, 
in  the  fog.    The  hunt  is  Queenless  evermore. 

Your  most  faithful 

George  M." 

In  London  I  was  photographed,  and  sent  a  copy  to  my 
Poet  and  one  to  Kinglake.  It  was  very  unlike,  as  are  all  photo- 
graphs that  have  ever  been  done  of  me.  Meredith  answered 
by  return  of  post  ;  Kinglake  wrote  three  days  before  my 
marriage. 


REMINISCENCES  87 

George  Meredith  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon. 

Esher,  November  30,   i860. 

"  Aly  dearest  Janet, 

A  thousand  thanks  for  the  photograph  ;  it  is  a  good 
and  fitting  present  at  this  awful  instant.  It  admirably  repre- 
sents the  occasion.  Looking  on  it,  I  see  the  corpse  of  the 
maiden  Janet.  Just  what  she  may  henceforth  give  of  herself, 
and  no  more.  It  isn't  bad,  it's  pleasant  to  have,  but  it's  Janet 
washed  out  and  decorated  with  soot.  Behind  it  lies  her  free 
youth.  She  looks  darkly  forward  on  the  children  of  Egypt. 
It's  Janet  half  Copt  already.  How  do  you  feel  ?  Do  write 
down  half  a  page  of  your  sensations,  and  hand  them  to  me, 
under  seal,  with  directions  that  I  may  read  them  a  year  hence 
and  compare  with  results.  Not  that  you're  romantic,  and 
I  don't  suppose  you  flutter  vastly  just  when  you  are  caught,  but 
still,  dear  Orange-blossom,  you're  a  bit  of  a  bird,  like  the  rest. 

By  the  way,  when  am  I  to  have  the  photograph  of  Janet 
a  wife,  while  Arthur  takes  the  maiden  ? 

Of  course  I'll  send  out  my  books  and  my  poems  to  my 
best  public.  Unless  I  do  them  horridly,  and  I  must  soon  get 
stronger,  or  I  shall. 

If  I  can  come,  as  I  trust  to,  I  must  return  on  Wednesday. 
I  have  all  the  writing  on  a  paper  now  on  my  shoulders.  Thurs- 
day is  contribution  day.  I  will  return  and  spend  a  week  with 
your  mother  when  she  is  alone,  and  may  want  me. 

And  now,  my  dear,  my  future  Copt,  and  good  friend  for 
ever,  as  I  hope,  farewell,  till  we  meet.  I  pray  fervently  you 
may  be  happy. 

I  think  of  leaving  Copsham,  to  live  in  two  small  rooms, 
that  I  may  save  for  Arthur's  education.  The  safest  address 
to  me  will  be  Chapman  and  Hall's.  God  bless  you  ;  my  com- 
pliments to  your  elect. 

Faithful  ever, 

George  Meredith. 

Esher's  in  mourning.  I  must  quit  the  place  before  Tuesday. 
The  shock  would  be  fearful  here." 


/ 


88  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Duf  Gordon. 

12  St.  James's  Place,  December  2,   i860. 
*'  My  dearest  Janet, 

A  thousand  thanks  for  the  photograph.  It  is  hke  and 
yet  very  unUke.  This  exiling  marriage  of  yours  is  diabolical. 
If  you  had  married  and  dwelt  in  this  country  I  could  have 
gone  to  see  now  and  then  whether  there  might  not  be  a 
'  reaction,'  and  whether  there  might  not  be  some  hope  of 
your  becoming  a  femme  inconiprise  and  telling  your  sorrov/s 
to  your  old  guardian.  But  all  charming  pictures  of  that  sort 
are  destroyed  by  the  notion  of  your  '  departing  into  Egypt.' 
It's  too  bad.  If  Alexander  had  been  half  as  selfish  as  I  am, 
he  would  have  thrown  all  sorts  of  difficulties  in  the  way. 
You'll  never  understand  what  an  uprooting  it  is  till  you  get 
a  polite  note  from  me  beginning,  '  Dear  Mrs.  Ross.' 

Your  affectionate 

A.  W.  Kinglake." 

My  marriage  took  place  very  quietly  at  Ventnor  on  Decem- 
ber 5,  and  I  fondly  hoped  my  mother  might  have  been  persuaded 
to  come  to  Egypt  and  stay  with  me.  She  was  very  unwell, 
unable  to  leave  her  bed,  and  it  was  a  bitter  parting  from  her 
and  from  my  dear  father,  who  I  knew  would  be  so  lonely 
without  me.  My  husband  and  I  went  to  London  for  a  few 
days,  where  Layard  dined  with  us.  He  had  been  unable  to 
come  to  Ventnor  for  our  wedding,  and  promised  me  faith- 
fully that  he  would  often  go  and  see  my  '  Dear  Old  Boy  ' 
and  cheer  him  at  Esher. 


CHAPTER   VI 

jA  T  Paris  we  spent  a  week,  and  dear  St.  Hilaire  and 
/^L         Victor  Cousin  came  to  dine  with  us.     They  both 

/ — ^L  approved  the  choice  made  by  la  petite  Jeanne^ 
,JL  jL^  although  he  was  twenty-three  years  older  than  her- 
self. C^est  un  homme,  wrote  the  old  philosopher  to  my  grand- 
mother. We  stopped  at  Malta  to  see  Mr.  Ross's  parents  and 
sister,  and  there  I  found  that  the  name  of  Austin  was  still 
remembered  with  love  and  veneration.  Several  Maltese 
families  asked  us  to  their  houses,  which  was  an  unusual  thing. 
My  grandfather  and  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir)  George  Cornewall 
Lewis  had  been  sent  to  Malta  in  1836  as  Royal  Commissioners 
to  enquire  into  the  grievances  of  the  inhabitants,  and  the  late 
Sir  Adrian  Dingli  told  me  that  Mrs.  Austin  had  taken  a  leading 
part  in  the  reform  of  the  primary  schools.  She  also  contributed 
largely  to  break  down  the  barrier  raised  by  a  clique  of 
old  English  residents,  who  for  years  had  kept  the  natives 
at  a  distance  from  the  Government  and  from  society.  But 
the  Maltese  were  still  shy  of  admitting  English  people  into 
their  homes,  and  some  of  old  Mr.  Ross's  friends  were  astonished 
when  I  said  that  we  had  paid  visits  to  various  of  my  grand- 
mother's native  acquaintances  and  been  warmly  received. 

In  January,  1861,  I  landed  at  Alexandria,  my  new  home. 
From  the  steamer  we  drove  through  part  of  the  native  bazaars, 
which  enchanted  me,  but  my  heart  sank  when  we  got  into  the 
European  quarter,  like  a  tenth-rate  French  provincial  town. 
I  felt  more  forlorn  than  I  can  say  when  my  husband  was 
summoned  to  Cairo  the  day  after  our  arrival  by  Halim  Pasha, 
uncle  of  the  Viceroy  Said  Pasha.  The  bank,  Briggs  and  Co., 
in  which  Henry  was  a  partner,  managed  all  H.H.'s  business. 
I  was  left  alone  with  a  Greek  cook,  an  old  Maltese  housemaid, 
who  spoke  only  Arabic  and  Italian,  of  which  I  knew  not  a  word, 

89 


90  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

and  Mohammed,  a  Berber  sofragee,  or  waiter,  whom  I  took 
to  at  once  because  he  reminded  me  of  our  poor  Hassan.  He 
was  about  fifteen  and  very  intelligent.  Finding  that  his  Sitt 
wanted  to  learn  Arabic,  he  told  me  the  name  of  everything  I 
touched.  I  wrote  down  what  he  said  as  though  it  had  been 
German,  and  the  plan  answered  so  well  that  in  six  weeks 
I  knew  enough  Arabic  to  give  many  orders — with  a  superb 
disregard  of  grammar.  I  went  into  the  stable,  showed  the 
sdis  how  to  put  on  my  saddle,  and  mounted  Mr.  Ross's  famous 
horse  "  Governor,"  which  he  had  brought  from  Mosul. 
Never  having  had  a  woman  on  his  back,  at  first  he  did  not  like 
my  habit  at  all.  I  took  Mohammed  with  me,  who  rode 
remarkably  well,  and  went  a  long  ride  to  console  myself  in 
my  solitude.  Once  outside  the  walls  of  the  town  the  country 
struck  me  as  wonderfully  beautiful  in  a  peculiar  way.  The 
never-ending  stretches  of  sand,  the  waving  palm  trees,  the 
statuesque,  graceful  people  who  smiled  at  me,  and  the  glorious 
golden  sunset,  were  intoxicating.  When  my  husband  returned 
we  had  to  pay  visits  to  the  English  residents,  and  I  confess  that, 
with  few  exceptions,  they  did  not  attract  me  very  much. 
Halim  Pasha  had  asked  Mr.  Ross  what  I  should  like  as  a  wedding 
present ;  wisely  he  said  an  Arab  horse.  The  Prince  chose 
from  his  stud  a  fine  Hamdany,'^  and  sent  him  down  with  a 
message  that  he  hoped  I  would  soon  go  to  Cairo  and  pay 
him  a  visit. 

Cairo  fulfilled  all  my  expectations.  I  felt  myself  transported 
bodily  into  the  Arabian  Nights.  The  melancholy,  good- 
looking  young  merchant  from  whom  we  bought  carpets  in  the 
Khan  Khalil  was  certainly  Ganem  who  loved  the  beautiful 
Sultana,  and  my  stalwart  donkey-boy,  Hassan,  who  escorted 
me  to  the  bazaars  shouting  riglick,  shemalick,  amenick 
(to  the  right,  to  the  left,  take  care),  O  sheykh,  O  maiden, 
O  boy,  was  quite  an  ancient  acquiantance.  We  drove  to 
Choubrah  to  thank  Halim  Pasha  for  the  bay  horse,  and  he 
took  me  all  over  the  lovely  gardens  and  then  sent  me  into  the 
hareem  to  visit  his  wife,  and  a  daughter  by  a  former  wife. 
The    voung   Princess    was    about    fourteen,    very   intelligent 

^  A  famous  breed  of  Arab  horses. 


REMINISCENCES  91 

and  beyond  her  years  in  most  things.  The  Pasha,  I  think  un- 
wisely, brought  her  up  as  an  European  with  a  French  governess. 
She  rode  well  and  drove  four-in-hand  some  dear  little  Shetland 
ponies  her  father  had  given  her  ;  of  course,  only  in  the  grounds 
belonging  to  the  palace.  She  fretted  at  the  prospect  of  being 
married  and  shut  up  in  a  hareem,  and  envied  me  my  freedom. 
Knowing  that  Halim  was  fond  of  music,  I  asked  her  whether 
she  played  or  sang.  Scornfully  she  answered,  "  No.  My 
slave-girls  do  that.  Besides,  my  father  will  soon  no  longer 
care  for  music  ;  it  gets  old  like  people,  and  then  is  thrown 
aside."  "  Surely,"  I  said,  "  you  like  some  old  people  ?  " 
The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdainfully.  "  With  us  it  is 
so  different,  you  can't  understand."  Pointing  contemptuously 
to  the  other  ladies,  she  added,  "  Who  cares  for  them  ? 
They  are  worse  than  children  ;  they  will  not  learn  and  one 
cannot  beat  them.  Why,  they  were  frightened  the  other  night 
at  an  eclipse  of  the  moon,  and  actually  woke  me." 

Halim  Pasha  I  liked.  Small,  agile,  and  darker  in  complexion 
than  most  Turks,  he  had  pleasant  manners  and  spoke  French 
remarkably  well.  I  was  told  that  his  mother  was  a  Bedaween, 
the  last  love  of  the  great  Mohammed  Ali.  It  must  have  been 
from  her  that  the  Prince  inherited  his  passion  for  hawking 
and  hunting,  and  his  powers  of  endurance.  He  had  a  fine 
stud,  and  occupied  himself  more  with  his  lands  and  his  people 
than  the  other  Egyptian  princes.  One  of  the  handsomest  men 
I  ever  saw  was  his  favourite  Circassian  mameluke,  Rames  Bey, 
who  saved  his  master's  life  on  a  memorable  occasion.  Several 
of  the  princes  had  been  down  to  Alexandria  soon  after  the 
railway  was  built,  and  on  their  return  the  bridge  at  Cafr- 
Zayat  was  by  some  mistake  (evil  tongues  say  on  purpose) 
left  open.  So  the  whole  train  fell  over  into  the  Nile,  and  two 
or  three  of  the  princes  were  drowned  with  many  of  their 
attendants.  Rames  jumped  out  of  the  window  of  the  carriage 
as  the  train  fell,  and  managed  to  drag  his  master  out  with  him, 
and  swim  to  shore.  He  was  a  splendid  fellow,  over  six  feet 
high,  with  a  figure  like  a  Greek  statue. 

Mr.  Nassau  Senior  had  given  me  a  letter  to  an  old  friend 
of  his,  an  Armenian  named  Hekekyan  Bey,  whose  devotion 


92  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

to  the  pyramids  and  learned  theories  about  them  will  be  re- 
membered by  the  few  still  hving  who  knew  him  in  Cairo. 
He  spoke  admirable  Enghsh  and  good  French,  and  had  the  most 
charming,  old-world  manners.  His  wife  took  me  to  the 
marriage  festivities  of  a  young  Turk,  the  son  of  one  of  her 
friends.  The  bridegroom  was  only  twelve  years  old,  and  his 
mother,  a  widow,  insisted  against  Hekekyan's  advice  on 
marrying  him  to  one  of  her  favourite  slave-girls,  a  very  hand- 
some woman  of  twenty.  "  She  will  look  after  him  and  amuse 
him,"  she  argued,  "  and  when  he  is  a  man  will  choose  a  suitable 
wife  for  him  and  look  after  the  house  when  I  am  gone." 
This  struck  me  as  a  poor  prospect  for  the  beautiful,  scornful- 
looking  woman,  who  sat  Hke  a  waxen  image  in  the  centre  of 
the  raised  divan  at  one  end  of  a  large  room.  She  bowed  her 
head  sHghtly  to  us,  and  then  became  again  immovable. 
Her  white  satin  trousers  were  heavily  embroidered  with  gold, 
her  gibbeh,  or  dress,  was  of  pale  green  satin  covered  with  gold 
embroidery,  and  she  blazed  with  jewels.  Deadly  pale,  with 
eyes  which,  thanks  to  the  deep  border  of  kohl,  seemed  larger 
and  more  brilliant  than  they  really  were,  her  hair  in  countless 
plaits  interwoven  with  strings  of  pearls,  which  fell  from  under 
a  jaunty  little  takeeyeh,  or  tarboosh,  entirely  covered  with 
precious  stones,  she  reaHzed  my  dreams  of  the  wonderful 
princesses  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  A  large  diamond  star  was 
stuck  on  each  cheek,  and  a  large  single  stone  dangled  over 
her  forehead.  From  three  in  the  afternoon  until  the  sun 
set  we  were  entertained  by  dancing  and  singing  girls,  with 
interludes  of  funny,  and  probably  rather  improper  tales  told 
by  two  dwarfs,  who  made,  I  was  told,  large  incomes  by  "  dilat- 
ing the  hearts  "  of  guests  at  marriage  feasts.  I  was  not 
sorry  when  Madame  Hekekyan  told  me  dinner  was  ready. 
Little  did  I  imagine  what  an  ordeal  a  Turkish  dinner  was. 
Sitting  cross-legged  is  not  so  difficult  for  a  short  time  on  a  low 
divan  where  one  leg  can  be  slipped  down  for  an  occasional 
change,  but  at  dinner  I  was  forced  to  sit  close  to  the  little 
inlaid  table  under  pain  of  spilling  the  food  into  my  lap,  and 
I  could  not  move  my  legs  without  danger  of  upsetting  the 
table.     The  first  attempt  at  eating  with  my  fingers  was  also 


REMINISCENCES  93 

rather  a  puzzle.  The  dinner  was,  however,  excellent  ;  I 
wonder  Turkish  or  Arab  cooks  have  not  taken  the  place  of 
French  chefs.  According  to  our  ideas  the  dinner  was  somewhat 
of  a  jumble,  the  dishes  seemed  to  come  up  whenever  they  were 
ready,  puddings  and  creams  mixed  up  with  meat  and  vegetables, 
and  the  rapidity  with  which  they  were  served  was  extraordinary. 
Our  hostess  pressed  one  dish  after  another  upon  us  until 
I  realized  what  the  schoolboy  at  our  village  feast  at  Esher  must 
have  felt,  when  he  timidly  answered  the  curate,  "  Please,  sir, 
if  I  stand  up  I  think  I  could  eat  a  bit  more." 

After  dinner  there  was  more  dancing  and  singing,  and  all 
the  time  the  beautiful  bride  sat  motionless.  She  did  not  dine 
with  us,  but  was  served  later.  The  bridegroom,  a  nice-looking 
boy,  was  very  shy  and  evidently  afraid  of  his  grown-up  wife, 
at  whom  he  hardly  looked.  At  ten  we  took  leave,  and  I  never 
saw  any  of  the  family  again. 

In  February  my  cousin  Sir  Arthur  Gordon  (afterwards  Lord 
Stanmore)  came  to  Egypt  to  announce  the  death  of  his  father 
to  his  eldest  brother,  who  was  up  the  Nile.  The  Viceroy 
lent  him  a  steamer  to  tow  his  dahabieh,  and  he  kindly  suggested 
that  we  should  go  in  her  as  she  was  empty.  My  Irish  retriever 
was  much  admired  by  the  crew  when  we  went  on  board, 
but  they  became  enthusiastic  when  one  day,  standing  by  the 
captain  on  the  top  of  the  paddle-box,  one  of  my  gloves  fell 
into  the  river  and  Norah  at  once  jumped  in  after  it.  "  Wallah  ! 
thy  dog's  mother  was  a  duck,  and  her  father  an  efreet,  for  she 
understands  thy  language."  The  worst  was  that  the  boat 
had  to  stop  to  pick  her  up,  and  Sir  Arthur  was  in  a  hurry. 
We  only  stayed  a  few  hours  to  coal  at  various  places  on  the 
way,  so  I  saw  but  little.  Lord  Aberdeen  was  at  Luxor  and  to 
our  dismay  asked  his  brother  for  the  steamer  for  the  use  of  some 
missionaries,  and  we  had  to  hire  a  small  dahahieh  to  take  us 
down  to  Cairo.  As  my  husband  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  his 
work  as  soon  as  possible,  we  only  spent  one  day  at  Luxor  and 
then  crossed  over  to  the  west  side,  visited  the  tombs  of  the 
kings,  and  saw  the  exquisite  temple  of  Medeenhet  Haboo. 
I  grieved  bitterly  when  at  sundown  we  started  on  our  homeward 
journey.    We  stopped  at  Denderah,  and  I  regretted  not  having 


94  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

seen  it  before  the  Theban  temples,  as  it  is  so  well  preserved 
that  one  would  have  understood  them  better.  On  one  of  the 
walls  is  a  portrait  of  Cleopatra  ;  the  artist  must  have  maligned 
her,  for  Antony  could  never  have  loved  so  ugly  a  woman. 
Amusing  and  delightful  as  is  the  life  on  a  dahabieh,  it  is  not 
the  conveyance  one  would  choose  for  a  man  anxious  to  get  back 
to  work.  Our  reis  said  Hadr  (ready)  with  a  smiling  face,  the 
men  rowed  hard  to  their  eternal  chant  Eyah  Mohammed^  Eyah 
Mohammed,  and  then  came  a  bend  in  the  river,  the  north  wind, 
so  welcome  to  those  who  are  sailing  up  the  Nile,  caught  us 
and  we  were  reduced  to  being  towed,  which  meant  progressing 
like  a  snail.  Even  the  sight  of  three  large  crocodiles,  one  of 
which  my  husband  shot,  did  not  console  him.  When  at  last 
we  reached  Alexandria  I  found  many  letters  awaiting  me, 
amonc  them  one  from  Layard  complaining  of  my  silence. 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Ross. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

You  have  not  written  me  a  single  word  since  you  have 
been  in  Egypt,  an  instance  of  ingratitude  and  forgetfulness 
only  paralleled  by  my  own  conduct  to  you.  But  I  have  some 
excuse,  you  have  none.  I  am  busy  day  and  night,  you  have 
nothing  to  do — at  least  I  suppose  so.  I  have  really,  after  all, 
little  to  tell  you,  as  my  time  is  almost  entirely  engrossed  with 
my  constituents.  I  am  in  for  meetings  and  lectures  I  don't 
know  how  many  times  a  week.  A  few  days  ago  I  gave  a  lecture 
for  Spurgeon  in  his  new  tabernacle.  It  was  very  successful. 
The  building  is  splendidly  adapted  to  its  purpose,  holds  nearly 
6000  people  comfortably,  and  demands  no  effort  of  the  voice. 
Mr.  Spurgeon  told  the  audience  afterwards  that  the  Lord 
would  pay  me  for  my  lecture,  but  I  have  not  yet  received  the 
money.  Pray  thank  Ross  for  his  letter,  which  tell  him  I  read 
with  great  interest.  I  do  not  write  to  him  now  as  I  am  writing 
to  you.  I  have  just  been  making  my  first  speech  in  the  House 
upon  Syrian  matters,  denouncing  the  Christians  to  his  heart's 
content.     I  don't  knov;  what  the  good  people  will  say  to  it. 


REMINISCENCES  95 

I  am  afraid  we  have  got  into  a  mess  in  this  Syrian  business, 
and  I  don't  see  my  way  out  of  it.  I  suppose  that  by  this  time 
you  are  aufait  of  Egyptian  politics.  I  long  to  have  a  long  letter 
from  you  with  plenty  of  news  of  yourself,  your  views  upon  the 
Eastern  quarrel,  an  account  of  your  mode  of  life,  etc.  etc. 
Have  you  got  a  good  horse  ?  and  do  you  ride?  Are  those  hideous 
dogs  alive  still?  Kinglake  is  flourishing;  he  promised  to  speak 
to-night,  but  did  not.  I  want  to  hear  him.  With  every  good 
wish. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

A.  H.  Layard." 

I  was  always  glad  when  business  with  the  Viceroy  or  with 
Halim  Pasha  called  my  husband  to  Cairo.  Briggs  and  Co. 
had  an  old  Turkish  house  close  to  the  Ezbekieyeh  Square 
where  our  agent  lived,  so  we  were  not  obliged  to  go  to  an  hotel. 
Though  Cairo  was  far  hotter  in  summer  I  preferred  its  dry 
heat  to  the  damp  of  Alexandria,  where  one's  shoes  were  covered 
with  white  mould  in  a  couple  of  daj'S. 

Tragic  harecni  stories  were  told  me  by  the  dozen,  most  of 
them  rendered  possible  by  the  law  that  no  Turk  can  enter  his 
women's  apartments  if  they  have  lady  visitors.  One  struck 
me  particularly,  as  I  had  heard  of  the  impassioned  and  beautiful 
singing  of  the  unhappy  and  unwilling  hero  of  the  tale — Sulie- 
man  the  Nightingale. 

On  the  road  to  old  Cairo  lived  a  Bey  who  had  been  honoured 
(the  honour  is  doubtful)  by  receiving  a  slave-girl  from  the 
Viceroy's  hareem  as  his  wife.  These  ladies  often  give  themselves 
great  airs,  and  make  their  husband's  life  miserable  by  threaten- 
ing to  complain  to  the  Valide  Khanoum  (the  mother  of  the 
Viceroy)  of  bad  treatment  whenever  they  are  out  of  temper 
or  their  caprices  are  not  gratified.  At  a  fantasia  the  Bey's 
wife  heard  the  celebrated  singer  and  fell  madly  in  love  with 
him.  She  became  melancholy,  refused  to  eat,  and  maltreated 
her  slave-girls  more  than  usual.  One  old  Dongola  woman, 
who  w'as  rather  a  favourite,  at  last  ventured  to  ask  why  the 
lady  was  so  sorrowful.  She  promised  to  help  her  mistress, 
and  suggested  that  "  out  of  charity  "  one  of  the  slave-girls, 


96  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

who  had  a  fine  voice,  should  be  given  in  marriage  to  Sulieman. 
He  accepted  with  joy,  as  he  expected  to  get  a  handsome 
marriage  portion  with  a  wife  from  the  house  of  a  great  Bey, 
and  Zeneeb,  the  slave-girl,  was  envied  by  her  companions 
for  making  so  good  a  marriage.  During  the  marriage  festivities 
the  old  Dongola  woman  explained  the  situation  to  Sulieman 
and  told  him  to  come  to  the  hareem,  with  or  without  his  wife, 
as  often  as  he  could.  For  a  time  all  went  well  until  Sulieman 
discovered  that  he  liked  his  wife  far  better  than  the  great  lady, 
when  his  visits  to  the  hareem  became  less  frequent  and  his 
backsheesh  to  the  eunuchs  diminished.  One  day  the  Bey 
overheard  grumblings  about  backsheesh  and  Sulieman,  and 
asked  the  chief  eunuch  what  it  meant.  The  man  hesitated, 
but  the  courbash  loosened  his  tongue  and  he  denounced  the  old 
Dongola  woman  as  the  authoress  and  abettor  of  the  intrigue. 
Calling  the  old  slave,  the  Bey  gave  her  the  choice  of  bringing 
Sulieman  to  the  hareem  within  an  hour's  time  or  losing  her  head. 
Terrified  she  rushed  to  the  singer's  house  and  implored  him  to 
come  at  once  to  her  mistress,  who  was  sick  with  longing  to  see 
the  beloved  of  her  heart.  Zeneeb,  alarmed  at  the  old  woman's 
manner,  declared  she  saw  death  in  her  eyes  and  implored  her 
husband  not  to  go.  He  hesitated,  and  it  was  only  when 
threatened  with  losing  the  patronage  of  the  Vice-regal  hareem, 
where  her  mistress  had  great  influence,  that  he  consented  to 
accompany  her,  after  swearing  to  his  wife,  by  the  head  of  his 
father,  that  this  should  be  the  last  visit  to  the  Bey's  wife. 
So  it  proved,  for  as  he  entered  the  door  the  Bey  cut  him  down 
with  his  own  hands.  Zeneeb,  uneasy  at  her  husband's  long 
absence,  sent  his  mother  to  enquire  after  him.  The  Bey  pointed 
to  the  dead  body  of  her  son  and  bade  her  begone.  She  turned 
upon  him  and  reproached  him  in  such  unmeasured  terms 
that  he  drew  his  sword  and  killed  her.  Small  black  crosses, 
such  as  are  worn  by  Copts,  were  hung  round  their  necks  to 
avert  suspicion,  and  the  two  bodies  were  thrown  into  the  Nile 
after  sundown.  Next  morning  the  corpses  were  found  en- 
tangled in  the  anchor-chain  of  a  dahahieh  and  taken  to  a  priest, 
who  buried  them  in  the  Coptic  cemetery,  thinking  they  were 
Christians. 


REMINISCENCES  97 

Sulieman's  sudden  disappearance  caused  some  surprise, 
but  was  soon  forgotten  and  would  never  have  been  thought  of 
had  not  Zeneeb  been  summoned  with  other  singing-girls 
to  sing  at  a  marriage  fantasia  of  a  slave-girl  in  the  hareem 
of  the  Valide  Khanoum.  When  her  turn  came  she  burst 
into  tears,  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Khanoum,  and  declaring  she 
could  not  sing  implored  justice.  The  Princess  stopped  the 
music  and  asked  what  she  wanted.  Zeneeb  then  recounted  the 
insane  passion  of  her  former  mistress  for  Sulieman,  how  she 
had  been  given  to  him  in  marriage  in  order  to  enable  him 
to  go  often  to  the  Bey's  hareem^  how  weary  he  had  become 
of  the  lady,  and  how  he  had  been  induced  by  the  old  Dongola 
woman  to  go  with  her,  since  which  fatal  day  she  had  never 
seen  him,  nor  his  mother  who  had  gone  in  search  of  him. 
The  Valide  Khanoum  promised  that  justice  should  be  done, 
and  kept  her  word.  The  Bey  was  summoned  before  the 
Council,  and  sentenced  to  banishment  to  Fazaglou  (the 
Egyptian  Cayenne),  whence  few  ever  return,  and  his  wife  dis- 
appeared as  mysteriously  as  poor  Sulieman  the  Nightingale. 
Whether  she  was  killed  by  her  husband  before  he  went  into 
banishment  or  by  the  Viceroy's  orders,  or  whether  she  was  sent 
to  the  galleys,  is  a  mystery.  But  it  is  unlikely  that  the  Bey 
would  have  dared  kill  a  woman  who  came  out  of  the  Vice-regal 
hareem. 

More  sensation  was  caused  by  another  event,  because 
Shaheen  Bey,  one  of  the  actors,  a  good-looking  young  Turk, 
was  well  known  among  Europeans.  His  house  was  near  that 
of  a  Pasha,  who,  contrary  to  the  usual  custom,  had  not  married 
again  after  the  death  of  his  young  wife  Fatme,  called  Werd- 
em-Masr  (the  Rose  of  Cairo),  owing  to  her  exceeding  beauty. 
She  left  two  little  girls,  Fatme  and  Elmass,  who  were  in  the 
charge  of  their  mother's  old  nurse  and  did  pretty  much  what 
they  pleased.  Shaheen  Bey  had  seen  Fatm6  as  a  child  in  the 
doorway  with  the  eunuchs  and  been  struck  with  her  loveliness. 
Some  years  later  he  caught  sight  of  her  at  a  musharibieh,  or 
lattice  window,  and  begged  his  uncle  to  go  and  ask  her  in 
marriage.  The  Pasha  replied  that  he  w^as  honoured  by  Sha- 
heen's  proposal,  that  he  had  no  objection  to  make  against 

JH 


98  I  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

his  position  or  his  fortune,  but  that  he  consorted  with  Christian 
dogs  and  was  therefore  no  true  believer.  So  he  decHned, 
Fatme  must  have  heard  about  Shaheen's  proposal,  for  she 
contrived  to  let  him  see  her  occasionally  as  he  rode  past, 
and  the  result  was  that  he  became  what  the  Arabs  call  "  mad 
wdth  love."  He  bribed  the  old  nurse,  got  into  the  hareem 
disguised  as  a  woman,  and  soon  Fatme,  of  the  mature  age  of 
fourteen,  w^as  as  fond  of  him  as  he  was  of  her.  Elmass,  the 
younger  sister,  became  jealous  and  threatened  to  tell  her  father, 
so  the  old  nurse  suggested  that  Shaheen  should  bring  his  young 
brother  to  amuse  the  girl,  w^ho  would  then  tell  no  tales.  For  a 
time  all  went  well  until  Shaheen,  becoming  foolhardy,  com- 
mitted the  folly  of  entering  the  hareem  in  his  ordinary  clothes. 
As  he  was  leaving  he  met  the  Pasha  face  to  face,  who  seized  him, 
but  after  a  struggle  was  thrown  down  and  the  young  Bey 
escaped.  The  eunuchs  confessed  that  for  some  time  they  had 
entertained  suspicions  of  the  two  friends  of  the  old  nurse, 
and  in  a  towering  passion  the  Pasha  went  to  the  Viceroy's 
secretary  and  told  him  the  whole  story.  He,  being  a  wise  man, 
advised  the  Pasha  to  hold  his  tongue  and  allow  the  young 
people  to  marry,  but  the  Pasha  refused  and  went  to  the 
Viceroy,  who  ordered  the  two  brothers  to  be  sent  to  Fazaglou. 
The  youngest,  a  lad  of  sixteen,  died  soon  after  passing  Luxor, 
and  Shaheen  destroyed  himself  in  a  few^  months'  time.  Fatme 
and  Elmass,  together  with  their  old  nurse,  were  condemned 
to  death.  Horrified  at  such  a  result  of  his  complaints,  the 
Pasha  threw  himself  at  the  Viceroy's  feet  and  obtained  a 
commutation  of  the  sentence  on  his  daughters.  They  w-erc 
imprisoned  for  life  among  the  female  galley-slaves. 

These  and  other  stories  made  one  shiver  when  passing  under 
the  high  walls  of  the  hareems^  where  so  many  women  were  shut 
up  leading  dull  and  useless  lives. 

One  of  my  favourite  excursions  was  to  the  tombs  of  the 
Memlook  Sultans,  all,  alas,  in  ruins  (at  least  they  w-ere  so  in 
the  sixties).  Looking  up  at  the  springing  arches  seemingly 
decked  with  priceless  lace,  and  at  the  graceful  cupolas,  I  thought 
of  Noor-ed-Deen,  and  wondered  if  a  Ginnee  would  come  and 
place  herself  at  my  orders  If  I  slept  one  night  in  those  beautiful 


REMINISCENCES  99 

buildings.  I  discovered  from  Hassan,  my  donkey-boy  (who 
really  was  a  tall  fellow  of  about  twenty-two)  that  the  Ginn 
occupy  the  same  place  in  the  minds  of  the  Egyptians  to-day 
as  they  did  in  those  of  the  personages  in  the  Arabian  Nights. 
We  were  caught  in  a  storm  one  day  near  the  tombs  of  the  Mem- 
looks,  and  watching  a  whirlwind  of  dust  moving  rapidly 
across  the  desert  I  exclaimed,  "  There  goes  a  Ginnee.'''' 
"  True,  O  lady,"  answered  Hassan,  murmuring  a  short  prayer. 
"  That  Ginnee  has  committed  an  evil  deed  and  has  been  smitten 
by  the  prayers  of  some  holy  man,  so  is  running  away.  Allah 
is  most  powerful,"  he  added  piously.  "  When  the  Ginn 
become  too  wicked  then  Allah  destroys  them  with  a  shillab 
(arrow  of  fire)."  I  stupidly  did  not  connect  a  shillab  with 
shooting  stars,  so  did  not  understand  what  Hassan  meant 
until  I  asked  Hekekyan  Bey.  He  told  me  that  the  Arabs 
exclaim  :  "  May  the  dart  of  Allah  destroy  the  enemy  of  the 
Faith,"  or  "  May  Allah  lead  thee  straight,"  when  they  sec  a 
falling  star,  hoping  that  it  may  kill  a  Ginn. 

Hassan  invited  me  to  go  to  the  shop  of  his  cousin  to  see  the 
Dosch^  or  treading,  performed  during  the  festival  for  the  birth 
of  the  Prophet  by  the  Sheykh  Es-Saadeeyeh.  The  crowd  was 
great.  Sellers  of  sweetmeats  and  cakes  were  much  patronized 
by  the  children,  and  the  sakkas^  or  water-carriers,  were  per- 
petually called  for.  Hassan  suggested  that  I  should  do  a  good 
deed  if  I  gave  a  few  piastres  to  one  of  them  to  distribute  the 
contents  of  his  skin  among  the  thirsty  poor  in  honour  of  our 
Lord  Mohammed.  The  sakka  walked  up  and  down  the  street 
inviting  all  to  partake  of  the  charity  of  the  English  Sitt,  and 
when  the  skin  was  empty  came  up,  salaamed,  and  said  : 
"  Thanks  be  unto  thee,  O  lady."  I  answered,  "  Thanks  also 
unto  thee,  O  sakka,  and  may  the  Prophet  compensate  thee," 
which  was  considered  very  polite  on  my  part. 

The  Doseh  is  a  wonderful  sight.  Loud  chanting  and  the 
beating  of  drums  heralded  the  approach  of  the  procession. 
Then  we  saw  flags  waving,  and  behind  a  troop  of  wild-looking 
darzveeshes  rode  the  Sheykh  on  a  handsome  grey  horse.  Sud- 
denly many  men  threw  themselves  flat  down  in  a  line  close 
together  on  their  stomacjis  in  tjie  dugt,  folded  their  arms  under 


100  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

their  foreheads,  and  stretched  out  their  legs  quite  straight. 
Some  of  the"  Sheykh's  followers  ran  over  their  backs  beating 
small  drums  and  shouting  Allah,  Allah,  which  the  men 
repeated  quickly  in  a  low  voice.  Twice  the  Sheykh's  people 
stopped  and  shoved  the  prostrate  bodies  closer  together. 

Not  a  muscle  of  Sheykh  Es-Saadeeyeh's  face  moved,  and  his 
eyes  hardly  blinked,  as  he  slowly  approached  the  living  path 
he  was  to  ride  on.  A  long  white  beard  descended  on  a  white 
cloth  coat  with  hanging  sleeves,  and  across  the  front  of  his 
dark  green  turban  was  a  peculiar  white  band.  A  sob,  rather 
than  a  shout  of  Allah,  rose  from  the  crowd  as  the  grey  horse, 
already  in  a  lather  of  sweat,  with  quivering  ears  and  switching 
tail,  planted  his  fore-legs  firmly  in  the  ground  and  resolutely 
refused  to  step  on  the  men.  Two  sa'is  sprang  at  his  bridle  and 
pulled,  while  two  more  joined  hands  behind  him  and  pushed. 
With  a  snort  of  terror  the  handsome  little  beast  threw  up  his 
head  and  ambled  rapidly  over  the  men's  backs  while  the  four 
sa'is  ran  over  their  heads  and  feet.  A  great  shout  of  Allah, 
la,  la,  la,  la,  la  !  resounded,  and  to  my  astonishment  the 
trampled-on  bodies  sprang  up  and  ran  after  the  Sheykh. 
None  of  the  men  appeared  to  have  been  hurt.  Hassan  said 
the  horse  had  been  trained  to  step  quickly  and  lightly  and  that 
he  was  unshod  ;  also  that  the  Sheykh  and  the  men  had  met  the 
evening  before  at  the  mosque,  where  they  recited  certain  prayers 
which  shielded  all  true  believers  from  harm. 

Whilst  I  was  in  Cairo  H.H.  HaHm  Pasha  lent  me  a  beautiful 
mare  to  ride.  He  had  just  bought  her  for  2000  napoleons 
from  a  Sheykh  in  Arabia  Felix  celebrated  for  his  breed  of 
horses.  One  day  I  rode  to  Choubrah,  and  the  Prince  boasted 
so  much  about  the  superior  fleetness  of  Arab  horses  as  compared 
to  English  that  my  patriotism  was  aroused,  and  I  challenged 
him  to  a  race  between  his  mare  and  an  English  thoroughbred 
I  had  just  bought  in  the  square  at  Alexandria  for  ;^40.  A  lot 
of  horses  were  brought  over  from  England  on  speculation, 
as  the  Viceroy  had  said  he  wished  to  mount  a  regiment  on  big 
horses ;  but  before  they  arrived  he  changed  his  mind.  "  Com- 
panion "  was  once  the  property  of  Lord  Howth,  for  whom  he 
had  won  some  small  races,  and  though  lame  on  the  off  hind-leg, 


REMINISCENCES  loi 

he  was  so  handsome  and  so  cocky  that  I  insisted  on  buying 
him,  and  soon  cured  the  sprain  he  got  on  board  ship.  The  only 
condition  I  made  with  the  Prince  was  that  he  should  bring  his 
mare  to  Alexandria  and  ride  her  himself,  adding,  with  superb 
confidence  in  Companion's  speed,  that  he  might  bring  as  many 
of  his  mamelukcs  as  he  liked  to  help  him  to  beat  an  English 
racer,  Halim  Pasha  came  to  Alexandria  with  eleven  of  his  best 
horses  and  he  rode  the  famous  mare.  Beyond  Ramleh,  which 
now  is  a  town  but  then  consisted  of  a  few  scattered  houses, 
was  a  long  stretch  of  desert.  Mr.  Smart,  a  friend  of  my  hus- 
band's and  a  great  lover  of  horses,  was  sent  two  miles  ahead  ; 
we  were  to  ride  round  him  and  back  to  the  starting-place. 
The  Prince  and  his  mamelukes  dashed  off,  and  I  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  Companion  at  a  steady  gallop  in  their  rear. 
As  we  went  round  Mr.  Smart,  who  was  riding  a  powerful 
thoroughbred  more  than  sixteen  hands  high  with  no  more 
mouth  than  a  brick  wall,  I  saw  he  was  losing  control  over  the 
"  Greek  "  and  would  be  forced  to  join  in  the  race.  Close  to 
him  was  a  narrow  belt  of  a  dwarf  prickly  plant,  through  which 
we  had  ridden  in  single  file  on  a  narrow  pathway  worn  by 
donkeys  carrying  stones  from  the  seashore.  Just  as  I  entered 
this  after  circling  round  him  I  heard  him  shout,  "  Go  on, 
Mrs.  Ross,  go.  I  can't  hold  him,"  and  the  thud  of  the  big 
horse's  hoofs  close  behind.  I  gave  Companion  one  stroke  on 
the  shoulder  and  rode  for  my  life.  Mr.  Smart  weighed  some 
fifteen  stone,  I  weighed  nine.  His  horse  was  fresh  while  mine 
had  done  two  miles.  Had  he  caught  me  we  should  probably 
both  have  been  killed.  Just  in  time  I  reached  the  end  of  the 
belt  of  prickly  bush,  swerved  sharply  to  the  right,  and  the  Greek 
shot  past.  Companion's  blood  was  now  up  and  I  let  him  go. 
Passing  the  Arabs  one  by  one,  I  beat  Halim  Pasha,  whose  mare 
was  going  beautifully,  by  about  a  hundred  yards,  the  mamelukes 
by  quite  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  They  did  not  like  it — particularly 
being  beaten  by  a  woman.  I  still  wear  the  gold  Arab  bracelet 
won  by  my  gallant  Companion.  In  a  letter  to  ELinglake  I 
described  the  race,  as  I  knew  he  would  be  amused,  and  he 
answered  : — 


102  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 

12  St.  James's  Place,  May,  1861. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  suppose  indignant  guardians,  like  parents,  '  come 
round  '  in  time,  and  I  dare  say  if  I  were  to  see  you  on  Com- 
panion astonishing  the  feeble  Egyptian  mind  I  should  make  my 
forgiveness  complete.  But  it  was  a  great  shame  of  you  to  go  and 
marry  and  '  settle,'  as  they  call  it,  in  Africa. 

I  glorify  you  for  winning  that  race.  It  makes  me  so  proud  of 
you,  Janet. 

Of  course  I  shall  go  to  Esher  when  my  lady  comes  back, 
but  now  I  suppose  the  Gordon  Arms  is  reduced  to  a  private 
residence.  How  am  I  ever  to  find  my  way  to  the  Gainsborough 
Lane  ?    My  kind  regards  to  Mr.  Ross.    Always,  my  dear  Janet, 

Yours  affectionately, 

A.  W.  Kinglake." 

By  the  same  mail  I  had  a  letter  from  my  Poet  telling  me 
about  the  various  novels  he  had  in  his  mind. 

George  Meredith  to  Janet  Ross. 

Copsham,  Esher,  Friday,  May  ijth,  1 861. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

The  little  man  has  been  in  great  glee  to  answer  you. 
He  had  paper  and  everything  ready  to  do  so  before  your  letter 
came,  and  his  reply  is  all  his  own  and  from  his  heart.  He  must 
love  you.  Who  could  fail  to  love  one  so  stanch  and  tender  to 
him  ?  Here  have  I  waited  silently  thinking  much  of  you, 
and  incurring  I  know  not  what  condemnation.  I  have  not 
thought  of  you  less  because  I  withheld  my  pen.  The  truth  is 
my  experiences  are  all  mental.  I  see  nothing  of  the  world, 
and  what  I  have  to  say  goes  into  books.  However,  I  am  now 
compelled  by  the  state  of  my  health  to  give  up  for  a  time. 
Your  poet — dare  I  call  myself  that  after  hearing  the  rhapsodic 


REMINISCENCES  103 

eulogies  of  old  Alder  ?  ^  I  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  cannot 
equal  him.  I  might  put  him  into  rhythm,  but  that  would  spoil 
his  hearty  idiom.  I  feel  quite  a  friendliness  for  old  Alder 
after  hearing  him  speak  of  you.  '  I  never  saw  a  young  lady 
like  her,  and  never  shall  again.  She's  a  loss  to  Esher  and  to 
England,  etc.  etc'  You  are  compared  with  Miss  Gilbert 
and  Miss  Reynolds  ;  and  men  are  dared  to  say  that  either  fair 
equestrian  surpassed  you  on  horseback.  Apropos  of  the  former 
lady,  Landseer  has  a  picture  of  her  in  the  Academy,  leaning 
exhausted  against  the  flanks  of  a  mare  couchant.  '  Taming  of 
the  Shrew  '  the  picture  is  named,  and  it  is  sufficiently  bad. 
Millais  has  nothing.  Hunt  a  '  Street  Wooing  in  Cairo,'  of 
which  you  could  judge  better  than  I.  Leighton  has  a  'Paolo 
and  Francesca  '  ;  painted  just  as  the  book  has  dropped  and  they 
are  in  no  state  to  read  more.  You  would  scorn  it  ;  but  our 
friendship  never  rested  on  common  sentiments  in  art.  I 
greatly  admire  it.  I  think  it  the  sole  English  picture  exhibiting 
passion  that  I  have  seen.  I  have  the  dehght  to  stand  alone 
in  my  judgment  of  this,  as  of  most  things,  and  I  shall  see  the 
world  coming  round  to  my  opinion,  and  thinking  it  its  own. 
Does  this  smack  of  the  original  George  M.  ?  Never  mind. 
Well,  there  is  a  beautiful  portrait  of  Alice  Prinsep  by  Watts. 
Idealized,  of  course — but  my  friend  Maxse,  one  who  is  strong 
in  points  of  feminine  beauty  (a  naval  man  loose  upon  society) 
thinks  her  superior  to  the  picture  in  physique.  .  .  .  Maxse 
is  a  very  nice  fellow,  with  strong  literary  tastes.  He  was  naval 
aide-de-camp  to  Lord  Lyons  in  the  Crimea.  I  dare  say  you 
have  heard  of  him.  You  would  like  him.  He  is  very  anxious 
to  be  introduced  some  day  to  Rose  Jocelyn  :  I  tell  him  that 
Janet  Ross  is  a  finer  creature.  If  Rose  satisfies  him,  how  will 
not  Janet  ?  He  has  taken  a  cottage  at  Molesey,  and  we  make 
expeditions  together  on  foot.  Talking  of  Rose,  did  you  see 
the  Saturday  P  It  says  you  are  a  heroine  who  deserves  to  be 
a  heroine.  And  yet  I  think  I  missed  you.  Your  mother 
tells  me  that  Mrs.  Austin  speaks  in  very  handsome  terms  of 
the  performance  generally,  and  of  the  portrait  in  particular. 

*  A   retired,    well-to-do  butcher    at   Esher,  who   came   cut   hunting   with  the 
Due  d'Aumale's  harriers,  but  ntver  jumped  even  a  hurdle. 


104  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  have  not  seen  your  mother  for  some  days.  She  has  had 
another  attack,  a  very  serious  one.  It  wears  my  heart  to  think 
of  her.  And  yet  I  think  her  constitution  rallies  from  time  to 
time,  and  I  have  still  strong  hope  of  her  ultimate  recovery. 
She  must  not  spend  another  winter  in  England.  The  baby  is 
quite  charming.  Like  you,  but  rosier,  and  with  a  tendency 
to  be  just  as  positive.  She  articulates  admirably,  and  shows 
qualities  equal  to  the  psychological  promise  I  have  noted  from 
the  first.  How  I  should  wish  Arthur  to  conquer  a  fair  position 
in  the  world,  and  lead  her  away  as  a  certain  Janet  was  led. 
At  present  he  is  decidedly  hopeful.  I  don't  want  to  force  him 
yet.  I  wish  to  keep  him  sound,  and  to  instil  good  healthy  habits 
of  mind  and  body.  In  writing,  spelling,  and  reading,  in 
memory  for  what  he  acquires,  few  children  surpass  him. 
And  he  really  thinks,  without  being  at  all  instigated  to  think. 
I  remained  at  Copsham  for  his  sake,  and  perhaps  shall  not 
quit  for  some  time  to  come.  He  will  not  go  to  a  regular  school 
till  next  year.  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  his  going  ;  but  it 
must  be,  and  so  I  submit. 

I  have  three  works  on  hand.  The  most  advanced  is  '  Emilia 
Belloni,'of  which  I  have  read  some  chapters  to  your  mother,  and 
gained  her  strong  approval.  Emilia  is  a  feminine  musical  genius. 
I  gave  you  once,  sitting  on  the  mound  over  Copsham,  an  outline 
of  the  real  story  it  is  taken  from.  Of  course  one  does  not 
follow  out  real  stories,  and  this  had  simply  suggested  Emilia 
to  me.  Then,  my  next  novel  is  called  '  A  Woman's  Battle.' 
Query — good  title  ?  I  think  it  will  be  my  best  book  as  yet. 
The  third  is  weaker  in  breadth  of  design.  It  is  called  '  Van 
Diemen  Smith.'    It  is  interesting  as  a  story.    Nous  verrons. 

Last  night  I  went  with  Maxse  to  the  House  of  Commons 
to  hear  the  debate  on  the  Constitution.  I  saw  your  friend 
Layard,  but  did  not  hear  him.  Eothen  was  absent.  Gladstone 
swallowed  the  whole  Conservative  body  with  his  prodigious 
yawns  and  eloquence  alternately.  I  never  saw  a  man  yawn  so 
naively  and  excusably.  The  truth  is  that  there  is  some  honesty, 
but  small  stock  of  brains  on  the  Conservative  side.  I  could  not 
wait  for  Bright.  I  heard  Horsman,  who  is  good  enough 
and    seems    bidding    for    the    Conservative    leadership.      He 


REMINISCENCES  105 

will  perhaps  get  it  ;  but  he  is  not  the  man  to  prop  a  sinking 
cause.  It  is  clear  that  we  in  England  are  going  down  to  a  lower 
circle.    Natural  development,  no  doubt. 

I  have  made  friends  with  a  nice  fellow  lately  :  a  son  of  the 
ambassador  at  Athens,  Sir  T.  Wyse,  whom  your  mother  knew. 
He  married  a  Bonaparte,  a  daughter  of  Lucien.  .  .  .  My 
friend  is  an  odd  mixture  of  Irishman  and  Corsican.  He 
wants  me  to  go  to  Athens  with  him.  I  may  meet  him  returning 
and  come  home  through  Provence.  He  is  intimate  with  the 
members  of  the  new  school  of  Provencal  poets  there,  and  wishes 
me  to  know  them.  Mistral  I  have  read.  He  is  really  a  fine  poet. 
If  I  go  I  shall  have  something  to  write  to  you  about. 

The  dear  good  Bart,  looks  melancholy  riding  alone.  It's 
rather  sad  seeing  him  out.  Otherwise  he  is  as  cheerful  and  of 
the  same  port  as  of  yore. 

My  dear,  I  have  been  thinking  many  a  month  of  a  wedding 
present  for  you.  I  don't  like  jewels,  and  books  you  have  enough 
of.  It  has  struck  me  that  a  magnified  photograph  of  your 
father  and  mother,  Maurice  and  Rainy  (my  brother  and  baby 
sister)  would  please  you  best.  Your  mother  will  sit  when  she 
is  well  enough.  What  say  you  ?  In  conclusion,  let  me  beg 
you  to  send  to  me  and  tell  me  anything  that  you  want  that  I 
may  have  the  pleasure  to  get  it  for  you.  I  rejoice  with  all  my 
soul  that  you  are  so  happy.  By  the  way,  Maxse  introduced 
me  to  the  Comte  de  Paris  the  other  day,  who  said  of  your 
husband  :  '  Mr.  Ross  is  a  very  clever  man,'  in  a  tone  of  con- 
viction and  esteem.  Of  you  he  spoke  as  it  pleased  me  to  hear. 
The  Orleanists  seem  looking  up,  owing  to  the  Aumale  pamphlet. 
The  Duke  was  chairman  of  the  Literary  Fund  dinner  last 
night  and  spoke  capitally. 

Remember  me  to  your  husband  very  kindly.  And  please 
write  soon,  and  cordially  forgive  me.  My  heart  is  very  much 
with  you,  and  I  am  always  at  my  Janet's  service.  God  bless 
you.    Your  faithful 

George  Meredith." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  the  spring  of  1861  M.  de  Lesseps,  an  old  acquaintance 
o£  my  grandmother  Austin,  came  over  from  Paris  and 
dined  often  with  us,  talking  of  course  much  and  enthusi- 
astically of  the  progress  of  his  beloved  Canal.  People 
about  the  Viceroy  told  me  it  would  never  have  been  made  had 
the  deep-sea  cable  then  existed.  As  a  young  man  de  Lesseps  was 
in  the  consular  service  in  Egypt,  and  became  very  intimate 
with  Said  Pasha  long  before  he  was  Viceroy.  M.  de  Lesseps 
persuaded  his  old  friend  that  the  Suez  Canal  would  be  of 
immense  advantage  to  Egypt,  and  still  more  to  his  own  pocket, 
and  obtained  from  him  permission  to  employ  forced  labour, 
without  which  the  work  would  have  been  impossible.  With 
the  Viceroy's  firman  in  his  pocket  de  Lesseps  at  once  embarked 
for  Marseilles.  When  Said  Pasha  told  his  ministers  next  day 
they  were  horrified.  He  was  so  impressed  by  their  repre- 
sentations of  the  drain  it  would  mean  on  the  population  of 
Egypt,  that  he  despatched  a  steamer  in  pursuit  of  the  Mes- 
sageries  Imperiales'  boat  with  a  letter  cancelling  the  firman. 
The  Vice-regal  steamer  was,  however,  slow,  and  everything 
had  been  arranged  and  signed  in  Paris  before  the  Pasha's 
messenger  reached  Marseilles.  M.  de  Lesseps  was  a  -persona 
grata  at  the  Tuileries  as  he  was  a  cousin  of  the  Empress, 
80  he  was  able  to  push  his  business  through  rapidly.  How 
many  wretched  fellaheen  died  in  the  Suez  desert  was  never 
known.  The  loss  of  life  must  have  been  terrible.  One  heard 
sad  tales  of  the  misery  of  the  women  and  children  who  were 
left  practically  to  starve,  as  the  men  had  to  take  all  the 
bread  away  with  them.  My  mother  in  her  Letters  from  Egypt 
describes  how  at  Luxor  a  fellah  prayed  at  the  tomb  of  Sheykh 
Gibreel ;  "  Ask  our  God  to  pity  them,  O  Sheykh,  and  to 
feed  them  while  I  am  away.     Thou  knovvest  how  my  wife 

106 


.^ 


REMINISCENCES  107 

worked  all  night  to  bake  all  the  wheat  for  me,  and  that  there 
is  none  left  for  her  and  the  children."  To  my  sorrow  and 
infinite  disappointment,  my  mother  was  induced  to  go  to 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  instead  of  coming  to  stay  with  us 
in  Egypt.    Kinglake  wrote  to  me  about  her  in  June  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 

12  St.  James's  Place,  June  ij,   1861. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

It  is  so  kind  of  you  to  write  to  poor  dear  me. 

I  have  been  several  times  down  to  Esher,  and  I  did  not 
myself  see  any  unfavourable  change  in  '  Mamma,'  but  the 
doctors  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  sea  voyage  is  the 
right  thing  for  her,  and  accordingly  she  is  going,  as  you  will 
have  heard,  to  the  Cape.  She  is  in  London,  and  I  am  expecting 
to  see  her  to-day  or  to-morrow. 

Please  tell  me  as  soon  as  you  can  all  you  know  or  can  find  out 
about  Lesseps  and  his  canal.  I  saw  the  '  Dear  Old  Boy  ' 
on  Thursday,  he  was  quite  well.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am  for  your  letters,  and  I  am  so  struck  with  the  unfairness 
of  the  exchange  between  one  of  yours  and  one  of  mine.  Some- 
how I  never  talk  in  a  letter,  but  I  am  always,  my  dear  Janet, 

Your  affectionate 

A.  W.  Kinglake." 

I  had  not  time  to  answer  by  that  mail,  so  I  added  a  post- 
script to  a  letter  I  had  written  to  Layard,  asking  him  to  send 
it  on  to  Eothen.    He  answered  : — 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Ross. 

Foreign  Office,  August  15,  1861. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

You  will  have  heard  long  before  receiving  this  of  my 
accession  to  oflfice.  Here  I  am  hard  at  work,  and  likely  to 
remain  so  all  the  autumn.    Alas  !  no  more  Italian  trips.    How- 


io8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

ever,  being  somewhat  tired  with  Parhament,  and  not  required 
at  the  Foreign  Office  until  the  middle  of  this  month,  I  took 
a  little  run  into  Holland  and  the  Low  Countries,  in  order 
to  examine  the  Dutch  and  Flemish  schools  of  painting,  of 
which  I  knew  little.  I  was  much  pleased  with  Holland, 
and  specially  delighted  with  the  galleries  at  Amsterdam 
and  the  Hague.  The  Rembrandts  are  truly  magnificent, 
and  P.  Potter's  bull  is  a  splendid  piece  of  painting,  and  has 
more  merit  than  being  merely  like  a  Bull.  The  country  is 
very  queer.  I  would  rather  be  there  for  a  month  than  for 
a  year.  I  was  immensely  pleased  with  the  Flemish  pictures 
at  Louvain,  Ghent,  and  Bruges.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  cities 
themselves  have  lost  their  picturesqueness,  owing  to  that 
atrocious  love  of  whitewash  which  is  ruining  the  picturesque 
and  beautiful  everywhere  on  the  Continent.  But  the  Van 
Dycks,  Memlings,  etc.,  are  wonderfully  fine.  Did  you  read 
my  article  on  Teutonic  Art  in  the  Quarterly  of  the  spring  ? 

I  received  your  letter  on  the  subject  of  the  Suez  Canal 
a  few  days  ago,  and  sent  it  off  to  Kinglake  at  once,  as  you 
seemed  to  wish  me  to  do.  I  was  much  interested  in  what 
you  tell  me,  and  hope  Kinglake  will  return  me  the  letter, 
as  I  have  requested  him  to  do.  I  never  expect  it,  although 
he  swears  that  it  shall  be  sent  back  to  me.  I  saw  him  last 
Friday.  I  met  him  and  your  father  by  a  happy  chance  at 
the  Athenaeum,  and  we  dined  together.  Your  father  seemed 
very  well.  I  shall  be  anxiously  expecting  news  of  your  mother. 
I  wrote  to  my  brother  to  look  out  for  the  vessel,  to  go  on 
board  as  soon  as  she  was  signalled,  and  to  do  anything  in  his 
power  to  make  your  mother  comfortable  at  the  Cape. 

I  constantly  see  some  of  your  friends,  who  all  ask  after  you. 
I  have  promised  to  run  down  to  Eastbourne  some  Saturday 
to  spend  Sunday  with  your  father,  but  I  much  fear  that  it 
will  be  difficult  to  keep  my  promise.  I  saw  Dicky  Doyle 
at  Aldermaston  yesterday.  He  seems  to  have  revived  with 
the  appearance  of  his  new  series  of  manners  and  customs  in 
the  Cornhill.  They  are  not,  I  think,  so  good  as  the  old  series ; 
they  lack  the  agility  of  pencil  and  peculiar  character  of  his 
early  things. 


REMINISCENCES  109 

I  hope  you  will  write  often  and  give  me  plenty  of  political 
news,  as  well  as  news  of  yourself.  I'm  writing  in  a  great  hurry 
and  more  illegibly  than  usual,  I'm  afraid. 

Your  affectionate 

A.  H.  Layard." 

A.  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Ross. 

Foreign  Office,  September  18,   1861. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  a  whole  bundle  of  letters  from  you  to  thank 
you  for.  The  information  you  send  me  on  the  subject  of 
the  Suez  Canal  and  other  proceedings  of  your  French  friends 
is  very  interesting  and  useful.^  I  hope  you  will  continue  to 
keep  me  informed  when  you  have  a  spare  moment.  I  am 
astonished  at  the  progress  you  have  made  in  financial  matters. 
You  write  quite  like  an  experienced  financier.  Have  you 
learned  all  this  from  Ross  ? 

I  have  little  to  send  you  in  return  for  your  excellent  budget 
of  news.  London  is  a  perfect  desert — as  much  so  as  the  great 
Sahara.  I  see  no  one.  Your  father  promised  to  meet  me  at 
the  Athenaeum  to  dine  on  Fridays  when  he  is  in  London. 
He  proved  faithless,  and  indeed  could  scarcely  have  been 
otherwise,  as  the  Athenaeum  has  been  shut  for  a  fortnight, 
and  I  have  had  to  seek  for  a  dinner  in  low  and  improper 
eating-houses  in  the  Haymarket,  where,  according  to  Mrs.  M., 
a  lady  may  dine,  '  if  she  runs  very  fast  upstairs.'  Last  Saturday 
I  went  to  C.  Dickens  for  the  Sunday,  and  spent  a  very  pleasant 
day  playing  croquet  violently  with  Dickens  and  his  belongings. 
You  have  now  the  whole  of  my  private  Hfe  and  adventures 
since  I  last  wrote  to  you.  Give  my  kindest  regards  to  Ross. 
I  have  written  you  a  short  letter,  but  you  must  forgive  me, 
as  I  am  very  busy. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

A.  H.  Layard." 

^  I  told  Layard  not  to  believe  the  stories  about  the  Canal  being  impossible  to 
make,  and  predicted  that  it  would  be  a  great  success. 


no  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

In  the  autumn  of  1861  Sir  James  Outram  came  to  Egypt 
for  his  health.  He  brought  a  letter  to  the  bank  of  Briggs 
and  Co.,  so  I  made  his  acquaintance  and  we  became  friends. 
When  he  was  well  enough  to  drive  out  I  rode  beside 
his  carriage,  proud  of  forming  the  escort  of  the  Bayard 
of  India.  Still  prouder  was  I  when  he  gave  me  his  book 
on  the  Persian  and  Indian  campaigns,  although  I  was 
not  one  of  the  companions  in  arms  for  whom  it  was 
printed.  Rarely  have  I  met  a  more  lovable  man,  so  simple, 
kindly,  and  always  afraid  of  giving  trouble.  He  was,  though, 
easily  roused  to  anger  by  any  act  of  cruelty  or  oppression  ; 
then  his  eagle  eyes  would  flash,  his  bent  figure  straighten, 
and  his  generally  gentle  voice  become  stern  and  sharp.  His 
modesty  was  astounding.  If  our  talk  fell  upon  books,  he 
would  say  :  "  You  understand  all  that  so  much  better  than 
I  do.  I  am,  you  know,  only  a  rough  old  soldier."  I  went 
up  to  Cairo  with  him,  saw  him  installed  in  his  dahabieh, 
and  said  good-bye  with  rather  a  heavy  heart. 

Next   day  my  donkey-boy,   Hassan,   persuaded  me  to  go 
and  see  the  dancing  derzoishes.    The  ceremony  had  not  begun, 
and  the  derwishes  were  seated  in  a  circle  round  their  Sheykh 
repeating  verses  of  the  Koran.     When  they  rose  they  began 
chanting    La  ilaha,   ilia  'llah   (there  is   no   God   but    God) 
in  a  low  voice,  while   the   musicians    beat    the    taraboukahs 
and  played  various  stringed  instruments.      Soon  the  chant- 
ing became  louder  and  louder  until  it  was  deafening.     One 
after    another    the    men,    clothed    in    flowing    white    robes, 
with  conical  felt  hats  on  their  heads,  began  to  turn  slowly 
round   and   round,    holding    their    right    arms    straight    out. 
Ever  faster  they  spun  wdth  half-closed  eyes  and  compressed 
lips,    while    their    Sheykh    swayed    backwards    and    forwards 
to  the  measured  beat  of  the  Httle  drums,  now  and  again  shout- 
ing Allah !  as   though    to    urge    them    to    still    more    rapid 
movement.    It  was  a  weird  scene,  and  when  one  of  the  whirling 
white  figures  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  foaming  at  the  mouth, 
I   slipped   away,   to   Hassan's   disappointment,   who   declared 
I  had  gone  just  when  the  exciting  part  of  the  entertainment 
was  beginning. 


REMINISCENCES  in 

Osman  Bey,  a  Europeanized  young  Turk,  invited  us  to  dine 
at  his  kiosk  on  the  road  to  Old  Cairo,  to  hear  Werd-en-Neel 
(the  Rose  of  the  Nile)  sing.  Brought  up  as  a  professional 
singer,  her  great  beauty  had  won  the  heart  of  a  rich  old  Pasha, 
who  married  her  when  she  was  about  fifteen.  He  showered 
jewels  upon  her  and  was  kind,  but  she  could  not  bear  the 
dulness  of  hareem  life,  went  before  the  Cadi,  divorced  her 
old  husband,  and  returned  to  her  profession.  Not  a  word 
could  be  said  against  her,  as  was  proved  by  her  dining  with 
Osman's  wife  in  his  hareem  before  coming  to  sing  in  the 
kiosk. 

After  an  excellent  dinner  with  several  French  and  Turkish 
friends  of  the  Bey's,  he  went  to  fetch  Werd-en-Neel  and 
ushered  her  in  with  considerable  ceremony.  She  was  thickly 
veiled  and  attended  by  several  women  and  musicians.  After 
salaaming  she  came  and  sat  by  me  on  the  divan.  As  my 
husband  spoke  Turkish  and  Arabic  perfectly  we  talked  merrily 
for  some  time,  until  he  begged  her  to  unveil  and  let  us  see 
"  the  Rose  in  all  her  beauty."  She  stood  up,  unveiled,  and 
threw  off  her  outer  robe.  Then  we  understood  the  infatuation 
of  the  old  Pasha.  Fairer  than  many  an  Italian,  her  brilliant 
complexion,  perfect  features,  and  almond-shaped  eyes  were 
ravishing.  The  slim,  lithe  figure  was  well  shown  off  by  her 
dress.  Trousers  of  white  satin  thickly  embroidered  with  seed- 
pearls,  a  very  short  jacket  of  pink  satin  covered  with  gold 
embroidery,  and  caught  just  below  the  breasts  with  a  large 
diamond  button,  a  shirt  of  India  muslin  with  gold  stars  worked 
on  it  tucked  into  the  belt  of  her  trousers.  Over  all  floated 
a  thin  sky-blue  abayeh^  or  cloak.  Perched  coquettishly  on 
one  side  of  her  head  was  a  gauze  handkerchief,  twisted  into 
the  shape  of  a  fez  by  ropes  of  pearls,  while  a  sprig  of  pome- 
granate with  brilliant  red  flowers  was  fastened  above  one  ear 
by  a  diamond  brooch.  She  was  a  beautiful  apparition,  and 
the  Turks  present  uttered  a  long-drawn  A-ah  !  Her  five 
women  had  meanwhile  crouched  down  in  a  half-circle 
behind  her  and  the  musicians,  and  after  every  verse  Werd-en- 
Neel  sang  they  murmured  a  short  chorus.  She  had  a  beautiful 
and  rather  pathetic  voice,  and  her  singing  was  quite  hinreizend. 


112  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

The  instruments  were  a  taraboukah,  or  small  drum  (a  cylinder 
of  earthenware  covered  with  lamb's  hide,  which  is  struck  with 
the  fingers),  a  ndy^  or  flute,  a  kamangeh,  or  viol,  and  a  kind  of 
mandoline  with  only  three  strings  and  a  handle  five  feet  long. 
The  fifth  man  appeared  to  be  the  leader  of  the  orchestra 
and  gave  the  time  by  clapping  his  hands.  After  two  songs 
Werd-en-Neel  asked  for  sherbet,  so  Osman  Bey  poured  out 
what  looked  suspiciously  like  cognac  into  a  tumbler  and  gave 
it  to  her  himself.  It  was  rather  a  shock  when  I  found  out 
that  this  delicately  lovely  woman  was  really  drinking  brandy. 
The  Bey  said  she  only  sang  her  best  after  drinking  two  or 
more  tumblers  of  the  so-called  sherbet. 

At  length  one  of  the  Turkish  gentlemen  begged  Werd-en- 
Neel  to  show  the  English  lady  what  really  good  Arab  dancing 
was,  adding  that  he  knew  she  was  a  very  gazelle  for  grace, 
and  that  the  hearts  of  men  made  a  carpet  for  her  feet.  She 
smiled,  but  looked  uncomfortable,  glanced  at  Osman  Bey 
and  at  the  open  windows  crowded  with  dark  faces  and  eager 
eyes — the  Bey's  people  who  were  listening  to  the  wonderful 
singing.  He  then  explained  to  me  that  Werd-en-Neel  would 
lose  caste  and  perhaps  not  be  summoned  again  to  sing  in 
the  great  Turkish  hareems^  if  she  danced  before  a  European 
woman  in  the  company  of  men.  My  husband  suggested 
shutting  the  windows  and  hanging  carpets  over  them.  "  Then 
no  one  will  know,"  he  said,  "  and  I  shall  be  able  to  judge 
whether  the  '  Rose  of  the  Nile  '  is  as  superior  to  the  '  Reed 
of  the  Tigris '  (a  celebrated  dancer  and  singer  at  Mosul 
whose  fame  had  spread  even  to  Egypt),  as  people  have  told 
me."  ^    This  diplomatic  speech  decided  her. 

While  the  windows  were  being  shut  and  rugs  hung  up, 
Werd-en-Neel  sat  on  the  divan  smoking  a  narghile  and  drinking 
more  sherbet.  She  questioned  my  husband  closely  about 
Mosul  and  the  "  Reed  of  the  Tigris."  "  Was  she  beautiful  ? 
Was  she  fair  or  dark  ?  Did  she  sing  well  ?  "  etc.  My  husband 
answered  :    "  As  the  owl  is  to  the  nightingale  was  her  singing 

1  My  husband  spent  several  years  at  Mosul  (1844.-1848),  where  he  first  knew 
Layard  and  took  him  on  a  hunting  expedition  to  the  mounds  of  Nimrood.  See 
Letters  from  the  East,  H.  J.  Ross.      Dent  &  Sons,  London. 


REMINISCENCES  113 

as  compared  to  thine,  O  Werd-en-Neel.''''  "  Trh  bien,  Ross," 
exclaimed  Osman  Bey. 

On  a  signal  from  their  mistress  the  five  women  rose  and 
began  to  dance.  I  was  terribly  disappointed  at  such  clumsy 
posturing,  as  unlike  dancing  as  anything  I  ever  saw,  and  re- 
gretted the  really  beautiful  singing.  Suddenly  Werd-en-Ned 
rose.  Shaking  off  her  small  pearl-embroidered  slippers,  she 
took  a  gauze  scarf  from  one  or  the  women  and  glided  over 
the  thickly  carpeted  floor.  The  lithe  figure  swayed  to  the 
wild,  strange  music,  as  with  tiny  steps  she  came  towards  us 
or  retreated,  her  bare  feet  showing  now  and  then  under  the 
heavy  folds  of  the  white  satin  trousers.  When  the  plaintive 
wail  of  the  nay  rose  high  above  the  other  instruments  she 
raised  her  arms  as  though  to  follow  the  sound,  and  as  the  notes 
died  away  she  let  them  fall  with  a  despairing  gesture,  and  her 
head  drooped  as  though  all  passion  had  died  within  her. 
"  Mais  c^est  du  Taglioni  tout  -pure,^  exclaimed  one  of  the 
Frenchmen,  though  anything  more  unlike  European  dancing 
it  was  impossible  to  imagine.  One  of  the  Turks  tore  his  fez 
off  and  flung  it  at  her  feet,  as  he  uttered  A-aaah.  Many 
a  dancer  did  I  see  during  my  seven  years'  sojourn  in  Egypt, 
but  not  one  who  could  compare  to  Werd-en-Neel. 

I  had  written  several  letters  to  my  Poet  without  getting 
an  answer,  so  at  last  I  declared  I  would  write  no  more  unless 
he  sent  me  a  few  words.    This  brought  the  following  answer  : — 

George  Meredith  to  Janet  Ross. 

Copsham,  Esher,  November  19,   1861. 
"  My  very  dear  Janet, 

I  plead  health,  I  plead  vexation,  occupation,  general 
insufficiency ;  I  plead  absence  from  home,  absence  from  my 
proper  mind,  and  a  multitude  of  things  ;  and  now  I  am  going 
to  pay  my  debts.  But  are  not  my  letters  really  three  single 
gentlemen  rolled  into  one  ?  This  shall  count  for  ten.  Now 
the  truth  is  that  my  Janet  is,  by  her  poet  at  least,  much  more 
thought  of  when  he  doesn't  write  to  her  than  when  he  does. 
Vulgar  comparisons  being  always  the  most  pungent,  I  will 
I 


114  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

say,  Lo,  the  Epicurean  to  whom  his  feast  is  still  in  prospect  ; 
he  dreams  of  it,  it  rises  before  him  in  a  thousand  hues  and 
salutes  his  nostrils  with  scents  heavenly.  He  dines.  'Tis 
gone.     'Tis    in    the    past,  and  with   it  go  his  rosy  visions. 

Your  P.G.  [perfect  gentleman],  to  wit  ,  I  saw  the  other 

day,  and  shall  probably  dine  with  him  on  Thursday.  Quoth 
I,  at  a  period  of  our  interview — Have  you  replied  duly 
to  the  fair  Alexandrine  ?  Then  went  he  through  much 
pantomime,  during  my  just  reproaches,  and  took  your  address, 
which  may  be  an  excellent  P.G.  performance  and  no  more. 
You  will  see.  He  is  in  new  chambers  full  of  pictures.  Old 
Masters  we  hear.  For  a  fine,  putative  Leonardo  he  disbursed 
recently  ^^400.  And  Sir  Charles  Eastlake  said — never  mind 
what.  Then,  too,  a  Masaccio,  for  which  he  gave  £i()  ys.  6^d., 
was  exhibited  at  the  British  Institution  and  the  papers  took 
note  of  nothing  else.  And  Sir  Charles  Eastlake  said — as  before. 
Your  P.G.  is  a  good  old  boy.  He  has  a  pleasant  way  of 
being  inquisitive,  and  has  already  informed  me,  quite  agreeably, 
that  I  am  a  gentleman,  though  I  may  not  have  been  born  one. 
Some  men  are  always  shooting  about  you  like  may-flies  in 
little,  quick  darts,  to  see  how  near  you  they  may  come.  The 
best  thing  is  to  smile  and  enjoy  the  fun  of  it.  I  confess  a 
private  preference  for  friends  who  are  not  thus  afflicted, 
and  get  the  secret  by  instinct.  As  my  Janet  does,  for  instance. 
The  dear  indifferent  Bart.  I  meet  occasionally  :  in  the  train, 
or  on  lonely  Celia  ;  looking  as  if  he  bore  with  life,  but  had 
not  the  exact  reason  for  his  philosophy  handy.  He  speaks  out 
like  a  man  concerning  your  husband,  and  I  should  wish  every 
husband  to  have  a  father-in-law  who  appreciated  him  as 
heartily.  Your  mother's  Diary  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
will  not,  I  suppose,  reach  you  before  this  letter.  On  the  whole 
it  is  very  hopeful.  Secondly,  it  is  immensely  amusing,  and 
shows  her  fine  manly  nature  admirably.  O  what  a  gallant 
soul  she  is  !  and  how  very  much  I  love  her  !  I  had  only  time 
during  the  passage  of  the  train  to  read  it,  and  couldn't  get 
to  the  end.  As  yet  the  voyage  has  wrought  no  cure  ;  but  the 
change  and  the  sea-breeze  and  shaking  have  done  good  and 
produced  favourable  excitement. 


REMINISCENCES  115 

I  have  new  friends  whom  I  Hke,  and  don't  object  to  call 
by  the  name.  A  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Hardman  I  met  in  Esher  this 
autumn.  She  is  very  pleasant,  and  is  one  of  the  rare  women 
who  don't  find  it  necessary  to  fluster  their  sex  under  your 
nose  eternally,  in  order  to  make  you  like  them.  I  give  her 
private's  rank  in  Janet's  Amazonian  regiment,  with  a  chance 
of  promotion.  Also  he  is  a  nice  fellow  :  a  barrister,  who  does 
photographs,  of  his  friends  principally.  On  that  head,  let 
me  say  that  I  went  (thinking  of  you  solely)  and  was  done  the 
other  day,  and  will  send  a  copy  to  you  immediately.  It  looks 
absurd  ;  but  I  must  conclude  it  faithful.  .  .  .  Your  sHppers 
and  kind  letter  for  the  little  man  have  just  come.  How  good 
of  you.  He  is  staying  for  a  week  with  some  people  in  Oat- 
lands  Park,  named  Virtue,  who  are  fond  of  him.  He  will 
reply  on  his  return. 

You  have  had  particulars  of  our  travels ;  at  least  items. 
Munich  is  a  glorious  city  to  pass  through,  and  the  Tyrol  a 
wonderful  country  for  the  same.  I  had,  the  truth  is,  a  miser- 
able walking  companion,  to  wit,  Buonaparte  Wyse  (son  of 
the  minister  at  Athens  and  of  Mde.  Buonaparte  Wyse,  Lucien's 
daughter).  He  is  half  Prince,  half  Paddy,  with  little  pluck, 
a  great  deal  of  desultory  reading,  a  wretched  stomach,  and 
no  control  over  his  nerves.  He  couldn't  walk  in  the  sun  ; 
he  wouldn't  walk  after  sun-setting  ;  the  rain  he  shunned  as 
if  he  had  been  dog-bitten — in  fact,  he  was  a  double  knapsack 
on  my  back.  Certainly  the  heat  was  tremendous.  The 
Tyrolese  men  are  the  handsomest  I  have  seen  ;  the  women 
the  ugliest.  The  Alps  gave  me  shudderings  of  delight  ;  but 
I  can't  bear  being  cooped  long  in  those  mountain-guarded 
valleys  ;  so  I  shot  through  them  in  two  weeks,  and  then  saw 
Italy  for  the  first  tim.e,  emerging  by  the  Adige,  which  the 
Austrians  are  fortifying  continually.  Verona  lies  just  under 
the  Alps,  and  is  now  less  a  city  than  a  fortress.  You  see  nothing 
but  white  coats,  who  form  two-thirds  of  the  inhabitants. 
The  little  man  asked  innumerable  questions  about  the  amphi- 
theatres, and  the  gladiators,  the  shows,  and  the  Roman  customs. 
Thence  to  Venice,  where  he  and  I  were  alone,  Wyse  parting 
for  Como  and  his  mother.    Our  life  in  Venice  was  charming. 


/ 


ii6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Only  I  had  to  watch  the  dear  boy  Hke  tutor,  governess,  courier, 
in  one  ;  and  couldn't  get  much  to  the  pictures,  for  there 
was  no  use  in  victimizing  him  and  dragging  him  to  see  them, 
and  I  couldn't  quit  him  at  all.  We  hired  a  gondola  and  floated 
through  the  streets  at  night,  or  out  to  Malamocco  to  get  the 
fresh  breeze.  A  fresh  Levant  wind  favoured  our  visit.  To 
the  Lido  we  went  every  morning,  Arthur  and  I  bathing — 
behold  us  for  a  solid  hour  under  enormous  straw  hats  floating 
and  splashing  in  the  delicious  Adriatic.  The  difficulty  of 
getting  him  out  of  it  was  great.  '  Papa,  what  a  dear  old  place 
this  is ;  we  won't  go,  will  we  ?  '  I  met  and  made  acquaintance 
with  some  nice  fellows  (Austrians)  in  the  water.  The  Italian 
fish  are  not  to  be  found  where  they  are.  Venice  looks  draped, 
and  wears  her  widow's  weeds  ostentatiously.  Our  gondolier, 
Lorenzo,  declared  that  he  had  seen  '  Lor  Birron  '  when  a  boy. 
'  Palazzo  Mocenigo,  Signor  ecco^  On  the  Lido  one  thinks 
sadly  of  Byron  and  Shelley.  I  found  the  spot  Shelley  speaks 
of  in  JuHan  and  Maddalo  where  he  saw  the  Vicenza  hills 
in  the  sunset  through  the  bell-tower  where  the  lunatics 
abide,  on  an  island.  Of  the  glories  of  St.  Mark's  who  shall 
speak  ?  It  is  poetry,  my  dear,  and  will  be  expressed  in  no 
other  way.  In  Venice  I  learned  to  love  Giorgione,  Titian, 
and  Paul  Veronese.  I  cannot  rank  Tintoret  with  them  (Ruskin 
puts  him  highest),  though  his  single  work  shows  greater  grasp 
and  stretch  of  soul.  Viennese  Crinoline  and  the  tyrant 
Whitecoat  do  their  best  to  destroy  the  beauties  of  St.  Mark's. 
Charming  are  the  Venetian  women.  They  have  a  gracious 
walk,  and  all  the  manner  one  dreams  of  as  befitting  them. 
Should  one  smile  on  a  Whitecoat,  she  has  the  prospect  of  a 
patriotic  dagger  smiting  her  fair  bosom,  and  so  she  does  not ; 
though  the  Austrians  are  fine  men,  and  red — but  exclusiveness 
for  an  abstract  idea  sits  not  easy  on  any  ladies  of  any  land  for 
longer  than — say,  a  fortnight.  Consequently  Vienna  sends 
Crinoline  to  her  children.  I  made  acquaintance  with  a  tough 
Baronne,  who  had  brought  two  daughters  of  immense  circle. 
How  quietly  the  pretty  Venetians  eyed  them.  The  Square 
of  St.  Mark's  is  the  great  parade.  The  weather  was  fiery  ; 
but  we  had  no  mosquitoes.     Milan  is  for  heat  next  door  to 


REMINISCENCES  117 

Pandemonium.    The  view  from  the  cathedral  you  have  heard 

of.     I  went  to  Como  to  see  W ,  who  was  with  the  Princi- 

pessa.  Before  dinner  we  all  bathed  in  Como,  ladies  and 
gentlemen  ensemble.  Really  pleasant  and  pastoral.  Madlle. 
swims  capitally,  rides  and  drives  well.  Thence  over  the 
Mount  Cenis  to  Paris.  The  little  man  was  in  raptures  at 
the  thought  of  crossing  the  Alps.  He  would  hardly  close 
his  eyes.  I  had  him  in  my  arms  in  the  coupe  of  the  dili- 
gence, and  there  he  was  starting  up  in  my  arms  every 
instant,  shouting,  and  crowing  till  dawn  :  when  I  had  no 
chance  of  getting  him  to  sleep.  When  we  reached  Macon 
at  night  I  put  him  to  bed  and  gave  him  a  little  weak  coffee 
in  bed.  He  slept  like  a  top  till  morning.  Whence  to  Paris, 
which  you  know.  Arthur  was  impatient  to  be  home  :  he 
cared  little  for  Paris.  I  gave  him  a  dinner  at  Vefours  and  at 
the  Trois  Freres.  He  appreciated  it :  but  longed  for  his  Eng- 
land. Paris  is  delightful.  Under  the  circumstances,  with  a  re- 
monstrating little  man,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  return 
hastily.  Thank  Heaven,  I  got  him  home  safe,  a  little  worn  : 
but  he  soon  got  over  that  and  has  improved  his  young  mind 
considerably.  The  journey  did  me  good.  I  am  much  stronger 
and  am  beginning  to  be  able  to  work  much  better,  but  have 
to  be  careful.  I  have  left  Emilia  Belloni  untouched  for 
months  ;  and  my  novel  is  where  it  was.  En  Tevanche,  I  am 
busy  on  poems.  I  think  it  possible  I  shall  publish  a  small 
volume  in  the  winter,  after  Christmas.  I  have  had  letters 
from  strangers,  begging  me  to  do  so.  One  man,  head-master 
of  a  grammar  school,  writes  a  six-page  letter  of  remonstrance 
and  eulogy,  concluding  :  '  I  have  often  said  I  wished  to  see 
three  men  before  I  died  :  Humboldt,  who  is  gone  ;  Bunsen, 
whom  I  had  the  fortune  to  meet,  and, — guess,  my  dear  ! 
He  says  that  the  '  Enchantress '  scene  in  Richard  Feverel 
made  him  ill  for  twenty-four  hours  :  and  that  he  and  his 
friends  (Cambridge  men)  rank  me  next  to  Tennyson  in  poetic 
power  ;  and  so  forth.  I  tell  my  Janet  this,  because  I  know 
she  will  like  to  hear  it.  I  listen  to  it  merely  as  a  sign  that  I 
am  beginning  to  be  a  little  known.  The  man  praises  my 
first  book  of  verse,  which  I  would  have  forgotten.    Grandfather 


ii8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Bridgeman,  an  idyll,  true  to  English  life  and  containing  a 
war  episode,  approved  by  friends  who  have  heard  it ;  The  Old 
Chartist,  The  Patriot  Engineer,  Phantasy,  A  Love-match,  and 
Cassandra  (about  to  be  illustrated  by  Rossetti),  are  among 
my  later  pieces.  When  these  are  out  I  shall  set  myself  seriously 
to  work  on  a  long  poem.  For  if  I  have  the  power  to  do  it, 
why  should  I  not  ?  I  am  engaged  on  extra  pot-boiling  work, 
which  enables  me  to  do  this ;  and  besides,  I  can  sell  my  poetry. 
What  do  you  think  ?     Speak  on  this  point. 

My  housekeeper,  good  Miss  Grainge,  has  just  had  an  offer 
from  Claremont  to  go  and  attend  the  Princesse  Fran^oise  ; 
and  I  am  afraid  she'll  go  ;  which  will  be  a  complete  upset 
here  :  for  she  is  an  invaluable  person  :  excellent  temper,  spotless 
principles,  indefatigable  worker,  no  sex,  thoughtful,  prudent : 
and  sensible.  Where  shall  I  find  such  another  ?  Of  course 
I  can't  advise  her  to  stay.  It  is  a  terrible  bother.  They  have 
been  hunting  a  little  ;  but  the  Prince  de  Joinville  has  not  yet 
returned  from  America,  so  not  much  is  done  in  that  way. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  Comte  de  Paris'  step  ?  I  can  excuse 
him  better  than  his  adviser.  He  was  courteous  and  kind  to 
me  here  (Maxse  introduced  me),  and  so  I  wish  him  well — 
and  therefore  well  out  of  it.  Let  me  hear  what  you  think 
of  Buckle,  who  has  become  a  topic. 

My  dear,  the  well  is  not  empty,  but  the  bucket  kicks.  I 
have  some  things  to  do  before  I  speak  of  them  ;  but  I  dare 
say  I  shall  see  you  before  I  offer  you  your  wedding  present. 
I  hate  offering  mere  jewelry.  I  have  thought  of  half  a  dozen 
things  :  but  your  mother's  illness  and  inability  to  go  to  London 
prevented  the  likeliest.  T  have  sent  books,  etc.,  to  Sir  AHck  to 
forward  when  he  can.  You  know  I  approve  of  the  man  you 
have  chosen  so  much  that  I  pardon  him  his  mortal  offence. 

May  all  good  be  with  you  and  yours. 

Your  faithful  and  loving 

George  M. 

Frederick  Chapman  is  just  married.  Your  book  is  being 
well  reviewed.    I  hope  Lewes  will  do  it  in  the  Saturday.''^ 


REMINISCENCES  119 

Meredith  mentions  Buckle  in  his  letter  because  I  wrote 
to  say  he  had  arrived  in  Alexandria  with  two  httle  boys, 
sons  of  Mr.  Huth.  They  dined  with  us  several  times,  and 
how  I  did  enjoy  hearing  good  talk.  But  I  pitied  the  poor 
children.  Mr.  Buckle  was  so  impressed  with  his  responsibihty 
that  he  swathed  their  hats  in  endless  folds  of  mushn,  and  made 
them  wear  huge  blue  goggles.  When  they  went  to  Cairo 
I  followed,  not  wishing  to  lose  the  opportunity  of  listening 
to  Mr.  Buckle.  One  night  Hekekyan  Bey,  who  was  a  great 
talker,  came  to  dinner  to  meet  him.  It  was  rather  a  failure, 
as  the  dear  old  man  quoted  the  Bible  in  EngUsh  apropos  of 
something  Egyptian  ;  whereupon  Buckle  stuck  out  his  chin 
and  scornfully  repeated  the  verse  in  Hebrew,  giving  his  own 
translation  and  remarking  that  when  people  cited  an  authority 
they  should  do  so  properly.  After  that  he  had  it  all  his  own 
way,  as  poor  Hekekyan  was  crushed.  Mr.  Buckle  was  not 
at  all  well,  and  we  entreated  him  to  give  up  the  idea  of  going 
overland  to  Syria  in  the  spring.  But  he  would  go,  and  I 
taught  him  how  to  load  and  fire  off  a  pistol,  which  he  imagined 
would  be  useful,  and  was  rather  annoyed  when  I  advised  him 
not  to  make  use  of  his  newly  acquired  accomplishment. 
Alas,  our  fears  were  realized,  for  Mr.  Buckle  died  in  Damascus 
in  May,  1862.  Towards  the  end  of  the  year  Miss  Marguerite 
Power,  a  niece  of  Lady  Blessington,  came  to  spend  the  winter 
with  us.  It  was  pleasant  to  have  a  clever  and  charming  woman 
as  a  companion,  and  the  warmth  of  Egypt  did  her  good. 
While  with  us  she  wrote  Arabian  Days  and  Nights,  a  bright 
description  of  life  in  Alexandria  at  that  time.  We  heard  all 
the  court  gossip  as  Mr.  Henry  Oppenheim  was  an  intimate 
friend,  and  he  had  more  to  do  with  the  Viceroy  than  my 
husband,  who  did  much  of  the  business  of  H.H.  HaHm  Pasha, 
uncle  of  Said  Pasha,  though  a  younger  man.  I  wrote  rather 
an  indignant  letter  to  Layard  about  the  underhand  intrigues 
relating  to  a  loan  the  Viceroy  was  negotiating,  and  he  re- 
plied : — 


120  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

A,  H.  Layard  to  Janet  Ross. 

Foreign  Office,  January  3,  1862. 
"  Dear  Janet, 

.  .  .  The  longer  you  live  in  the  East  the  more  your 
eyes  will  be  opened  to  the  disgraceful  intrigues  and  petty 
interests  which  distort  and  influence  every  question,  public 
and  private.  It  is  just  such  open-hearted,  frank  persons  as 
yourself  who  are  the  most  easily  deceived,  because  they  are 
unsuspicious  and  slow  to  believe  wrong  of  anyone,  and  whose 
feelings  are  most  quickly  roused.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there 
has  been  a  great  struggle,  political  and  commercial,  in  this 
loan  affair,  and  that  the  unsuccessful  candidates  for  the  ad- 
vantage of  lending  the  Pasha  money  will  fall  upon  the  success- 
ful one  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  they  would  have  been  inclined 
to  have  treated  the  Pasha  with  any  more  generosity  than  their 
rivals.  ...  I  have  read  your  translation,  and  find  a  good  deal 
of  interesting  matter  in  it.  I  should  say  it  was  perhaps  a 
little  too  technical,  especially  in  the  second  part,  for  the 
general  public,  but  the  analysis  it  gives  of  the  authorities 
on  the  crusades  is  new  and  valuable.  Why  don't  you  take  up 
something  else  more  suited  to  the  reading  public  ?  I  haven't 
written  to  you  since  the  death  of  Prince  Albert,  a  very  great 
and  grievous  loss  to  the  country. 

Your  affectionate 

A.  H.  Layard." 

The  hot  summer  of  1861  had  rather  pulled  me  down,  so 
it  was  settled  that  I  should  leave  with  Marguerite  Power  in 
April,  my  husband  following  in  June  or  July.  I  wrote  to  tell 
my  Poet,  and  he  answered  : — 

George  Meredith  to  Janet  Ross. 

Copsham  Cottage,  Esher,  February  15,   1862. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

You  come  in  April.  You  are  even  now  packing  and 
preparing,    and   your   heart    is    bounding   for   England.      So 


REMINISCENCES  121 

I  will  hope  the  best  of  you,  my  dear  child.  Though  your 
letters  have  saddened  me,  and  I  see  that  your  physical  con- 
dition is  lowered,  I  never  liked  the  climate  for  you,  though 
I  perfectly  approved  of  the  husband.  After  all,  it's  merely 
a  probation,  not  a  settlement.  There  has  been  little  hunting 
here  this  winter,  owing  to  the  absence  of  the  Princes.  The 
weather  is  good  for  it  ;  the  frosts  are  short,  and  the  ground 
soft  and  wet,  and  not  too  much  so.  Haven't  you  heard  from 
the  P.G.  yet  ?  He  said  he  would  write,  and  abused  his  P.G. 
reputation  ;  but  I  always  have  suspected  him  to  have  something 
of  a  woman's  nature  :  id  est ;  he  must  see  a  body  to  be  with  a 
body.  Now,  you  can't  say  that  of  me.  What  do  you  think 
(as  a  proof  the  other  way)  ?  I  was  walking  out  with  Hardman 
(the  man  being  absent  from  his  wife),  and  I  commenced 
'  La,  la-la — la-la-  and  so  on,'  ending  '  La-la — la-la-ti-to-te,' 
in  my  fine  voice,  when  he  cried,  '  Halloa  !  '  and  I  meekly 
responded,  '  That's  my  spoony  song,'  '  And  it's  mine,'  quoth 
he.  '  The  song  that  always  made  me  sentimental,'  said  I. 
'  The  song  that  bowled  me  over,'  said  he.  I  told  him,  with 
a  yawn  (noble  manhood's  mask  for  a  sigh),  that  I  had  written 
words  to  it.  He  and  his  wife  petition  for  them.  So,  please, 
to  spare  me  from  having  to  write  fresh  ones,  send  me,  if  you 
have  them,  a  copy  of  my  lines  to  Schubert's  Addio.  If  you 
have  any  objection,  don't  do  it. 

Maxse  is  not  the  man  you  saw  with  me  in  Esher.  That 
was  Fitzgerald.  Maxse  is  quite  a  different  fellow.  He  per- 
formed the  celebrated  ride  in  the  Crimea,  as  Lord  Lyons's 
aide-de-camp.  Arthur  and  I  attended  his  wedding,  when 
the  little  man  was  much  petted.  The  bride  was  very  sweet 
and  charming,  and  there  was  a  wedding  choir  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  at  St.  Paul's,  Knightsbridge.  I  went  with 
Borthwick,  of  the  Morning  Post,  a  very  nice  fellow  indeed, 
whom  I  will  ask  to  meet  you  when  we  have  you  here.  By  the 
way,  I  write  for  the  Morning  Post  now,  at  odd  hours,  which 
pays  your  poet.  And  I've  a  volume  of  Poems  coming  out  in 
three  weeks ;  but  I  won't  send  the  volume.  You  shall  have  it 
when  you  come. 

Can  I  meet  you  in  Paris  ?    Nothing  would  please  me  better^ 


122  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

But  I  fear  I  can't  leave  my  pen.  Borthwick  promises  me  intro- 
ductions there.  It  would  be  pleasant.  I  will  see.  There's 
yet  time.  I  will  write  again  shortly.  Pray  give  my  saluti  to 
Miss  Power  and  your  husband,  and  hold  me  ever 

Your  faithful 

George  M." 


CHAPTER    VIII 

IN  February,  1862,  M.  de  Lesseps  came  from  Paris,  and 
asked  us  to  accompany  him  on  a  tour  of  inspection  in 
the  Isthmus.  My  husband  could  not  leave  the  bank,  and 
as  Marguerite  Power  promised  to  take  care  of  him  I 
went,  dressed  in  my  riding-habit,  with  my  saddle  and  a  very 
small  handbag  as  all  luggage.  Ismailia  did  not  exist  in  those 
days,  and  Port  Said  was  a  pretty  little  village  of  wooden 
chalets,  with  a  shelving  beach  of  fine  sparkling  sand  and  lovely 
small  pink  and  blue  shells,  I  wrote  an  account  of  the  trip 
to  my  mother,  which  may  be  interesting  as  a  picture  of  what 
the  Suez  Canal  was  like  forty-eight  years  ago. 

Janet  Ross  to  Lady  Du§  Gordon  at  the  Cafe  of  Good  Hope. 

Alexandria,  March  i,  1862. 
"  Dearest  Mother, 

You  will  have  understood  from  Marguerite's  letter 
why  I  did  not  write  last  mail,  now  I  send  you  a  real  yarn. 
On  the  20th  February  de  Lesseps  met  us  out  riding.  He  had  just 
come  from  Paris  with  some  French  gentlemen  to  make  a  tour 
of  inspection  in  the  Isthmus.  Greeting  me  as  usual  as  his 
jeune  et  aimable  ami,  he  suggested  that  we  should  go  with  him, 
and  promised  that  his  Chefs  des  travaux  would  welcome  with 
enthusiasm  the  first  woman  who  deigned  to  visit  the  Suez 
Canal.  He  certainly  possesses  the  secret  of  eternal  youth, 
and  evidently  looked  forward  v^th  delight  to  a  possible  camp- 
out  in  the  desert  with  our  horses  tied  to  our  wrists.  Unfortu- 
nately Henry  could  not  leave  Alexandria,  so  next  morning 
I  met  de  Lesseps,  four  young  Frenchmen,  and  Dr.  Aubert 
Roche  at  the  station.    At  Kafr-Zayat  we  found  a  special  train 

123 


124  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

and  reached  Zag-a-Zig  about  four.  Here  we  saw  the  lock 
the  Company  has  made  on  the  Bahr-em-Moise  (Moses' 
river)  which  flows  into  what  was  the  ancient  Tanitic  branch 
of  the  Nile,  now  only  a  small  canal.  M.  de  Lesseps  had  tele- 
graphed to  M.  Guichard,  his  Chef  Agricole  at  Tel-el- Kebir, 
to  send  a  covered  boat  towed  by  camels,  and  the  pony-chaise 
■pour  une  dame  agee.  The  four  Parisians  and  our  small  amount 
of  luggage  were  put  on  board  the  boat,  while  de  Lesseps  and 
I  got  into  the  pony-chaise  with  the  stout  doctor,  who  had  some 
difficulty  in  stowing  himself  away  in  the  small  dickey  behind, 
declaring  that  two  such  wild  young  people  could  not  be 
left  to  their  own  devices.  Words  cannot  describe  the  reckless 
fashion  in  which  we  flew  jolting  and  tilting  along  the  top  of 
the  dyke.  At  last  Dr.  Aubert  Roche  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  solemnly  protested  that  if  we  did  not  care  for  our  necks 
he  valued  his  own,  and  begged  that  Madame  Ross,  who  being 
English  could  probably  drive,  would  take  the  reins.  After 
some  seven  miles  we  reached  El-Wady  (the  ancient  land  of 
Goshen),  an  estate  recently  bought  by  the  Company  from 
Said  Pasha.  Soon  afterwards,  as  night  was  closing  in,  we  saw 
the  flashing  of  meshaals,  or  torches,  and  horsemen  galloping 
towards  us.  They  were  M.  Guichard  with  his  staff  and  some 
hedaween.  Their  surprised  faces  at  seeing  the  dame  agee 
dressed  in  a  riding-habit  and  driving  M.  le  President  were  very 
funny. 

We  reached  Tel-el-Kebir  about  nine  at  night,  and  were  soon 
joined  by  the  boat  party.  One  of  the  dandy  young  Frenchmen 
roused  the  ire  of  de  Lesseps  by  declaring  that  it  had  been  un 
voyage  jort  danger eux.  This  inspired  our  handsome  host  to  tell 
various  gruesome  stories  about  wolves  and  jackals.  The  latter 
were  evidently  in  league  with  M.  Guichard,  for  they  howled, 
whined,  and  cried  all  night  long.  Several  times  I  got  up  very 
quietly  ;  the  moon  was  so  brilliant  that  I  made  sure  of  seeing 
them.  But  the  moment  I  reached  the  window  all  was  quiet, 
and  they  did  not  begin  again  until  I  had  been  in  bed  for  some 
time.  I  have  promised  M.  Guichard  that  when  you  come  to 
Egypt  you  will  pay  a  visit  to  Tel-el-Kebir.  You  would  delight 
in  the  queer  old  Turkish  palace,  and  the  palm-shaded  orange 


REMINISCENCES  125 

grove  with  its  sakyieh,  or  water-wheel,  shaded  with  the  lovely 
creeper  Sitt-el-Ho'syn,  or  Lady  of  Beauty,  one  mass  of  rosy-lilac 
flowers  shaped  rather  like  bells.  All  night  the  Arab  boy,  who 
sat  oh  the  shaft  and  drove  the  buffalo  round,  sang  a  monotonous 
chant  :  '  Turn,  turn,  O  sakyieh,  and  bring  water  to  the  orange 
groves  of  the  righteous  Frangee.  Turn,  turn,  O  sakyieh,  for 
since  our  new  master,  with  hair  of  silver  and  the  face  of  a  youth, 
has  dwelt  here  our  tears  no  longer  water  the  ground.  Turn, 
turn,  O  sakyieh,  and  bring  water  to  the  orange  groves  of  the 
Tel.'  You  would  delight  still  more  in  the  bedazveen.  Such 
fine  independent  fellows.  We  fraternized  much  on  the  subject 
of  horses. 

At  seven  in  the  morning  we  left  Tel-el-Kebir.  I  asked  de 
Lesseps  to  let  me  try  a  dromedary,  and  one  would  have  thought 
that  I  weighed  twenty  stone  by  the  way  the  beast  groaned  and 
complained  while  I  was  climbing  up  on  to  the  saddle.  Your 
Atlantic  storm  was  nothing  to  the  rising  of  the  dromedary. 
I  felt  as  though  I  should  be  chucked  miles  away,  seized  hold 
of  the  pummel,  and  shut  my  eyes.  When  I  opened  them  I 
looked  down  on  the  top  of  de  Lesseps'  hat.  It  was  like  sitting 
on  a  small  pyramid.  Seeing  a  bit  of  cord  tied  to  the  pummel, 
I  took  hold  of  it  and  pulled,  with  the  result  that  my  drome- 
dary's long  neck  turned  up  the  wrong  way  and  I  could  see 
down  her  wide-open  mouth,  while  she  roared  like  a  lion, 
and  then  began  to  spin  round  and  round.  M.  Guichard 
trotted  up  to  the  rescue,  and  bade  me  drop  the  cord  and 
guide  the  beast  with  a  tap  of  my  foot  on  either  side  of  the 
shoulder.  I  soon  felt  at  home,  and  we  sped  away  for  three 
hours  across  the  desert  to  Ras-el-Wady.  There  we  found  a  boat 
towed  by  two  camels,  and  said  farewell  to  the  pleasant  inmates 
of  fascinating  Tel-el-Kebir.  The  tiny  stations  of  Maxama  and 
Ramses  we  passed  at  a  great  pace.  I  was  sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  explore  the  latter,  as  the  Arabs  told  me  of  a  wonderful 
colossal  stone  idol  with  three  heads  and  six  arms — es  Shaitan — 
the  devil.  All  at  once  the  brilliant  sun  was  obscured  by  a  dense 
cloud,  and  the  men  exclaimed  juraudeh  (locusts).  In  an  instant 
the  ground,  the  canal,  and  the  boat  were  a  crawling  mass  of 
large  brown-green,  hideous  grasshoppers.     The  camels'  feet 


126  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

went  squash,  squash,  as  they  crushed  hundreds  at  every  step, 
and  the  boat  surged  through  a  writhing,  hving,  thick  pea-soup. 
We  seized  every  pole,  stick,  and  umbrella  on  the  boat  and 
knocked  down  as  many  as  we  could,  while  the  boatmen  per- 
formed a  war-dance  on  the  bodies  of  their  dreaded  foes.  It 
was  a  horrid  sight.  Nothing  I  can  say  will  give  you  any  idea 
of  the  creepy  feeling  one  had  at  seeing  the  earth  walk  about, 
as  it  were.  The  poor  young  Frenchman  fell  into  yet  deeper 
disgrace  with  de  Lesseps  by  exclaiming  perpetually  :  *  Quel 
pays  ;  mon  Dieu,  quel  fays !  '  as  he  flicked  off  the  locusts 
when  they  alighted  upon  him  with  his  lavender-coloured  kid 
gloves.  He  did  not  trouble  us  long.  The  ride  to  Ras-el-Wady 
had  tired  him,  and  when  at  Timsah  we  again  mounted  to  ride 
along  the  line  of  the  works  of  the  maritime  canal  to  El-Gisr 
he  looked  miserable,  and  we  left  him  there  next  day  in  bed. 

Lake  Timsah,  surrounded  by  sand  hillocks  tortured  into 
every  conceivable  shape  by  the  wind,  with  its  tall  rushes  and 
large  flocks  of  water-fowl,  was  beautiful.  It  is  to  be  the  great 
inland  port,  and  the  Viceroy's  fete-day,  July  15,  will  be  cele- 
brated by  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  falling  into  the  quiet 
desert  lake.  Eight  miles  still  remain  to  be  excavated  between 
Lake  Timsah  and  El-Gisr,  and  tv^-enty  thousand  men  were 
swarming  up  and  down  the  steep  banks,  chanting  a  sad,  mono- 
tonous song  as  they  carried  the  sand  in  small  rush-baskets 
from  the  bottom  of  the  cutting  to  the  top  of  the  bank.  As 
each  basket  only  held  about  four  spadesful,  it  seemed  to  me  a 
vast  amount  of  work  with  a  very  small  result.  But  de  Lesseps 
declared  that  the  Arabs  insisted  on  working  in  their  own  way, 
and  showed  me  a  lot  of  wheelbarrows  he  had  imported.  The 
barrows  were  lying  bottom  upwards,  and  the  men  used  them 
to  sleep  under.  You  may  imagine  what  a  hole  has  to  be  made 
in  the  sand  when  I  tell  you  that  the  canal  is  to  be  189  feet 
broad  and  28  feet  deep.  I  pitied  the  poor  fellaheen  their 
treadmill  labour.  Up  and  down  the  sliding  sand-banks  from 
sunrise  to  sunset,  and  a  lick  over  the  back  when  they  did  not  go 
fast  enough.  That  may,  however,  have  been  an  extra  display 
of  zeal  while  the  Abou-et-Toural  (Father  of  the  Canal),  as 
they  call  de  Lesseps,  was  looking  on.     Eight  thousand  of  the 


REMINISCENCES  127 

men  came  from  the  Upper  Nile  between  Philae  and  Khartoum, 
a  far  finer  race  than  the  lower  Egyptians  and  better  and  faster 
workers.  There  was  more  animation  in  their  section,  much 
talking,  and  some  laughter,  while  the  Behere  looked  dispirited 
and  melancholy. 

The  canal  was  already  twenty  feet  deep  near  El-Gisr,  a 
little  town  with  a  mosque  and  a  few  nice  houses  in  the  middle 
of  the  desert.  Here  we  stayed  with  M.  Gioja,  the  head  en- 
gineer, a  pleasant  and  clever  Italian.  The  few  Europeans 
v/ho  were  at  El-Gisr  were  asked  to  come  to  supper,  and  we  had 
quite  an  evening  party.  Very  droll  it  was.  I  tied  up  my  habit, 
and  M.  Gioja  sacrificed  the  one  rose  of  his  tiny  garden  to  stick 
into  my  hair.  We  actually  danced  on  the  sand  to  an  accordion 
which  had  lost  two  notes,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  that  M.  le 
President  was  by  far  the  best  valseur  and  quite  the  youngest 
person  there. 

Next  day  we  started  at  noon  in  a  conveyance  which  would 
rival  your  Cape  Town  waggon.  How  I  wish  you  had  been 
there  !  A  sort  of  waggonette  to  hold  six  people,  drawn  by  six 
camels — two  wheelers,  three  in  front  of  them,  and  one  leader. 
It  was  an  idea  of  de  Lesseps  and  every  one  had  opposed  it,  but 
camels  proved  themselves  good  draught  animals,  and  we  went 
a  capital  pace  when  the  ground  was  firm  ;  but  in  loose  sand  the 
wheels,  though  broad,  sank  deep,  and  the  poor  beasts  complained 
aloud.  I  soon  had  enough  of  the  jolting  carriage  and  mounted 
a  capital  little  Arab,  which  I  jumped  backwards  and  forwards 
over  the  rigole,  or  ditch,  so  in  years  to  come  I  can  say  that  I 
have  jumped  the  Suez  Canal. 

At  El-Ferdane  we  embarked  in  two  small  covered  boats 
and  were  towed  to  El-Kantara,  twenty-two  miles.  De  Lesseps, 
who  had  gone  to  bed  at  four  in  the  morning  and  was  up  at 
six,  said  to  me  :  Mon  enfant,  je  vats  dormir  pendant  dix  minutes. 
He  did,  and  snored  aloud.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he  awoke 
a  giant  refreshed.  I  never  saw  such  a  man.  Such  energy  and 
go,  and  his  funny  little  ejaculation  of  hein,  hetn,  between 
each  sentence  seems  to  give  point  to  his  talk.  He  is  so  con- 
siderate and  so  kind  to  everybody.  No  wonder  his  people 
adore  him. 


128  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

El-Kantara  is  a  pretty  little  place  on  the  caravan  line  to 
Syria.  Six  or  seven  hundred  camels  pass  daily  over  the  tem- 
porary bridge  which  spans  the  canal.  Close  by  there  is  capital 
stone,  which  will  be  quarried  for  Port  Said  as  soon  as  laden 
boats  can  get  through  Lake  Menzaleh.  Here  we  saw  the  first 
sea-gulls  skimming  over  the  water,  and  sea-fish  have  been 
caught  not  long  ago.  We  had  another  evening  party,  three 
women  and  forty  men,  and  at  five  next  morning  we  embarked 
and  went  on  very  well  to  near  Raz-el-Eche.  There  the  mud 
from  the  lake  became  thicker  and  thicker,  and  we  often  had 
to  get  out  and  scramble  up  the  banks  to  lighten  the  boat. 
The  canal  goes  through  part  of  Lake  Menzaleh,  and  I  beheve 
the  mud  has  proved  to  be  a  far  more  stubborn  and  expensive 
enemy  than  the  desert  sand.  Double  rows  of  huge  piles  have 
been  driven  deep  down  into  the  seemingly  bottomless  slush, 
and  thousands  of  tons  of  stone,  ballast,  and  cement  have  been 
thrown  in  between  them  to  form  the  banks  of  the  canal. 
But  the  mud  always  oozes  out  from  the  bottom,  and  although 
several  powerful  dredges  were  at  work,  they  seemed  incapable 
of  vanquishing  it.  Raz-el-Eche  we  reached  at  four  in  the 
afternoon,  a  small  encampment  surrounded  by  water.  The 
dry  land  on  which  the  engineers  live  is  only  no  metres  in  cir- 
cumference. From  here  our  progress  was  slow,  partly  owing  to 
the  mud  and  partly  to  the  north  wind,  which  had  driven  the 
water  to  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  which  is  150  miles  round. 
Wind,  they  say,  has  such  an  effect  on  the  lake  that  three  feet 
of  water  will  disappear  in  a  few  hours  from  one  end,  and  return 
as  quickly  when  the  wind  changes.  Port  Said  we  reached  at 
seven,  very  tired,  very  cramped,  and  very  hungry.  One  of  de 
Lesseps'  wonderful  qualities  is  that  he  can  go  all  day  on  a 
handful  of  dried  dates  and  be  perfectly  happy. 

M.  Laroche,  the  head  engineer  at  Port  Said,  had  a  charming 
house,  and  my  tv/entieth  birthday  was  toasted  with  great 
honour.  We  drank  your  health  too,  my  dear  mother,  and  you 
are  to  consider  yourself  invited  to  Port  Said.  All  the  next 
day  we  spent  there,  M.  Laroche  showing  with  pride  how  he 
had  beaten  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Lake  Menzaleh,  which 
used  alternately  to  flood  the  narrow  strip  of  land,  now  ever 


REMINISCENCES  129 

increasing  in  height  and  breadth,  on  which  Port  Said  is  being 
built.  The  Cadi  had  just  made  a  new  census,  and  gave  the 
number  of  inhabitants  as  4200  souls.  Two  babies,  born  the 
day  we  arrived,  made  up  the  round  number,  to  his  evident 
pleasure.  The  pier  runs  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  into  the  sea, 
with  a  tramway  on  it.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  further  out  a  small 
bit  of  the  pier  has  been  built,  so  that  stone  can  be  landed  there 
and  the  men  continue  the  pier  towards  the  land,  a  great  saving 
of  time  and  labour.  Hitherto  every  block  of  stone  had  to  be 
put  into  a  small  boat,  the  water  being  so  shallow  that  no  ship 
can  come  within  half  a  mile.  The  sand  at  Port  Said  is  beautiful. 
Firm  to  walk  on, and  so  silverythat  it  positively  sparkles  in  the  sun. 

We  left  M.  Laroche's  hospitable  roof  at  six  in  the  morning 
on  the  26th,  and  embarked  on  the  lake  in  an  Arab  boat.  Very 
wide  in  the  bows,  she  tapered  oif  to  a  sharp  point  at  the  stern, 
and  as  the  cabin  was  built  in  front,  I  had  an  odd  impression 
that  we  were  sailing  backwards.  The  lake  swarms  with  fish 
of  every  kind.  Grey  mullet  grow  to  five  feet  long  and  more, 
and  their  roe  is  excellent.  I  have  often  eaten  botargo,  but  never 
realized  that  it  was  the  roe  of  the  grey  mullet.  Pelicans, 
flamingoes,  herons,  wild  geese  and  duck,  swans,  gulls,  and  other 
sorts  of  water-fowl  abound.  Sometimes  when  I  thought  we 
were  sailing  straight  on  to  an  island,  suddenly  thousands  of 
wings  opened  wide  and  my  island  flew  high  into  the  air,  like 
a  rosy  cloud.  The  flamingoes  had  been  standing  on  one  long  leg 
fishing  in  the  shallow  water. 

At  five  in  the  afternoon  we  arrived  at  Damietta.  Such  a  pic- 
turesque town  with  beautiful  musharibieh  (carved  lattice  vdn- 
dows)  and  balconies  overhanging  the  Nile !  M.  Voisin,  the 
Company's  agent,  had  such  a  perfect  old  Turkish  house  that  I 
longed  to  carry  it  away.  The  Suez  Canal  Company  have  immense 
storehouses  at  Damietta  and  own  a  great  deal  of  land.  Twice 
a  week  they  run  a  steamer  to  Samanoud,  which  takes  passen- 
gers. In  this  we  started  next  day  at  twelve  o'clock  vdth  about 
forty  people  on  board.  I  told  Dr.  Aubert  Roche  that  the 
French  engineer  had  evidently  been  drinking  the  health  of 
M.  le  President  rather  too  often,  and  at  nine  at  night  the  Arab 
fireman  rushed  up  from  the  stokehole,  exclaiming  that  we 

K 


130  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

should  all  be  blown  up  as  the  machinery  was  out  of  order 
and  the  engineer  hopelessly  drunk.  The  fires  were  put  out, 
and  we  dropped  down-stream  until  we  met  some  of  the  ordinary 
Nile  cargo-boats.  With  great  difficulty  we  got  six  men  to  tow 
our  party  in  an  empty  boat  up  the  river,  and  in  it  we  passed 
the  whole  night,  slowly  stemming  the  rapid  current.  I  posi- 
tively hated  de  Lesseps  and  the  Doctor  for  their  power  of 
sleeping  (and  snoring)  under  difficulties.  We  reached  Man- 
sourah  at  midday  where,  to  Dr.  Aubert  Roche's  despair, 
I  persuaded  de  Lesseps  to  requisition  two  horses  from  the 
governor  and  to  ride  to  Samanoud.  The  Doctor  declared  we 
should  be  murdered  or  lost,  that  I  was  mad  and  M.  le  President 
was  madder,  that  he  was  the  powder  and  I  was  the  spark,  and 
we  left  him  in  a  towering  passion.  After  waiting  for  more 
than  an  hour  we  at  last  got  the  horses  and  a  sdis  and  reached 
Samanoud  (about  sixteen  miles)  at  four  o'clock.  It  was  a 
wonder  we  did  not  break  our  necks,  de  Lesseps'  horse  fell 
twice  and  mine  once.  However,  we  got  something  to  cat, 
and  just  as  they  came  to  tell  us  the  special  train  was  ready  our 
companions  arrived,  very  hungry  and  very  ill-tempered.  At 
midnight  we  were  back  in  Alexandria. 

In  my  last  letter  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Ingi  Klianoum, 
the  wife  of  H.H.  Said  Pasha,  gave  me  a  very  pretty  Turkish 
dress,  and  sent  me  home  dressed  up  In  it  in  one  of  the  hareem 
carriages.  There  was  a  great  to-do  in  the  house  when  the 
eunuchs  announced  that  a  lady,  a  friend  of  the  Vice-Queen, 
would  go  upstairs  and  wait  for  ^itti  Ross.  Poor  Henry  was 
turned  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  when  I,  pretending  not 
to  know  the  way,  walked  solemnly  after  him  into  the  library, 
he  made  me  a  beautiful  speech  in  Turkish,  carefully  turning 
his  head  the  other  way  and  edging  towards  the  door.  Of  course, 
I  did  not  understand  a  word  he  said  and  burst  out  laughing. 
Ingi  Khanoum  was  delighted  at  the  success  of  her  joke,  but 
I  was  more  delighted  when  I  sent  Mr.  Browning  a  photograph 
of  myself  in  the  Turkish  dress  (an  old  promise),  to  hear  that  he 
told  Papa  the  Turkish  lady  was  not  me,  but  you.  O  !  how  you 
will  love  Egypt,  my  dear  mother,  it  is  so  exactly  like  our  dear 
Arabian  Nights,  only  the  Europeans  spoil  it. 

Your  affectionate  Janet." 


JANET   ROSS. 


REMINISCENCES  131 

When  Sir  James  Outram  returned  from  his  Nile  tn}<, 
I  sent  him  a  copy  of  my  translation  of  von  Sybel's  Crusades^ 
and  he  answered  : — 


Sir  James  Outram  to  Janet  Ross. 

Cairo,  March  14,  1862 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Rofs, 

I  have  just  received  and  gratefully  thank  you  for  the 
book,  which  I  shall  ever  treasure  as  my  most  valued  gift  from 
a  most  valued  friend.  Of  course,  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to 
read  it,  but  the  glance  I  have  had  makes  me  think  I  shall  like 
it  much,  though  perhaps  too  little  capable  of  appreciating 
its  beauties. 

Thank  you,  I  have  certainly  benefited  by  my  trip  up  the 
Nile,  and  purpose  going  home  via  Constantinople  and  the 
Danube  about  the  middle  of  next  month.  I  regret  much 
that  I  shall  not  be  in  time  to  welcome  you  in  England.  It  is 
rather  windy  here  at  present,  but  I  manage  to  drive  out. 

With  kindest  remembrances  to  Mr.  Ross,  beheve  me,  dear 
Mrs.  Ross, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

J.  Outram." 

Alas,  I  never  saw  Sir  James  again.  I  called  on  him  in 
London  with  my  father  in  May,  but  he  was  too  ill  to  see 
any  one. 

In  April,  1862,  I  left  Alexandria  with  Marguerite  Power 
and  joined  my  father  at  Esher.  How  pleasant  it  was  to  take 
up  the  old  life  again  with  my  "  Dear  Old  Boy  "  and  to  see 
my  Poet  and  Arthur  1  I  spent  a  week  or  so  in  London  with 
Mrs.  Higford  Burr  and  met  many  friends,  the  Bishop  of 
Oxford,  Lord  Somers,  Sir  Henry  Rawlinson,  Millais,  Layard, 
and  others.  At  a  ball  at  the  Nassau  Seniors'  I  was  amused 
by  Holman  Hunt  asking  me  whether  he  had  not  improved  in 
his  dancing.  I  complimented  him  on  it,  but  told  him  he  must 
still  practise  hard  before  he  could  rival  Leighton  or  Millais. 


132  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Mr.  Hume  was  there,  but  did  not  float  about  over  our  heads 
or  in  and  out  of  the  windows  as  I  fondly  hoped.  My  father 
took  me  to  a  soiree  at  the  Athenaeum,  where  we  talked  much 
to  a  Parsee  gentleman  and  his  two  daughters,  who  spoke 
English  perfectly.  There  I  met  also  kind  old  Sir  William  Erie 
and  Sir  Roderick  Murchison,  with  his  very  stiff  necktie  (called, 
I  think,  a  stock),  who  always  would  talk  to  me  about  Silurian 
rocks,  which  did  not  interest  me  at  all.  I  was  generally  a 
favourite  with  old  people,  probably  because  my  father  had 
from  my  earliest  childhood  instilled  into  me  that  it  was  a  duty 
to  be  very  civil  to  them  ;  but  sometimes  it  was  rather  hard 
work. 

Before  going  to  Homburg  with  my  father  to  meet  my  hus- 
band, I  stayed  for  a  day  or  two  at  Lansdowne  House,  and  was 
shocked  to  find  how  much  aged  and  how  feeble  my  dear  old 
friend  looked.  His  death  the  following  year  was  a  great  grief 
to  me,  and  to  my  mother,  who  heard  it  at  Siout. 

Of  all  tiresome  places  a  German  bath  is,  I  think,  the  most 
tiresome,  and  I  was  not  sorry  when  a  telegram  arrived  an- 
nouncing my  mother's  arrival  in  England  from  the  Cape 
much  sooner  than  we  had  expected.  We  hastened  home 
and  found  her  looking  much  better,  but  the  damp,  cold  climate 
soon  made  her  cough,  and  at  the  end  of  July  she  left  Esher 
with  my  father  for  the  Eaux  Bonnes  in  the  Pyrenees,  where 
M.  de  Mussy,  the  doctor  of  the  Orleans  family,  had  unfortu- 
nately persuaded  her  to  go.  The  intense  damp  made  her 
very  ill ;  she  was  in  bed  for  some  weeks,  and  as  soon  as  she  was 
able  to  travel  went  to  Marseilles  to  her  uncle  Philip  Taylor, 
and  embarked  for  Egypt  in  October.  It  was  evident  that  she 
would  never  be  able  to  live  in  England,  so  the  old  house  at 
Esher  was  given  up,  and  I  passed  a  sad  and  weary  time 
packing  up  pictures,  china,  etc.,  for  my  father.  He  gave 
me  Celia's  second  filly  by  the  Arab,  and  we  sent  her  out  to 
Egypt. 

'•  Before  I  left  England  Sir  George  Lewis  sent  me  two  copies 
of  his  pamphlet  Suggestions  for  the  Application  of  the  Egypto- 
logical Method  to  Modern  History,  one  for  myself,  one  for  my 
mother. 


REMINISCENCES  133 

Sir  George  Cornewall  Lewis  to  Janet  Ross. 

Kent  House,  December  3,  1862. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  much  pleasure  in  sending  you  an  Egyptological 
pamphlet,  and  hope  that  you  will  persuade  somebody  to  write 
a  book  of  modern  history  upon  the  plan  which  has  been  followed 
with  such  success  by  the  writers  on  the  ancient  history  of 
Egypt. 

I  will  send  you  a  photograph  of  myself  in  a  day  or  two. 
I  hope  your  mother  will  derive  benefit  from  her  Egyptological 
researches. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

G.  C.  Lewis." 

The  few  Egyptologists  then  in  Egypt  were  extremely  angry 
when  I  quoted  George's  description  of  their  method,  "  unre- 
strained and  easy  in  its  movements,  graceful  in  its  attitudes, 
and  elevating  in  its  spirit ;  opening,  by  its  lofty  flights,  com- 
manding views  of  remote  and  unseen  objects,  etc."  One  old 
gentleman  was  so  irate  that  he  actually  complained  to  my 
husband  that  I  had  turned  him  into  ridicule. 

In  January,  1863,  we  returned  to  Alexandria,  and  in  March 
I  went  to  meet  my  mother  in  Cairo.  She  was  not  very  well ; 
like  so  many  people  she  came  down  the  river  too  early  in  the 
year.  While  I  was  in  Cairo  Hassan,  the  donkey-boy,  told  me 
some  Arab  stories,  prefacing  them  by  saying :  "  O  Sitt, 
if  thou  wert  like  other  English  who  laugh  at  our  customs 
I  should  be  silent." 

"  Allah,  sitting  in  heaven,  kicked  off  one  of  his  slippers, 
which  fell  into  hell.  '  O  Adam,  fetch  my  slipper,'  he  said. 
But  Adam  answered  :  *  O  Lord,  I  am  thy  slave,  but  I  am  made 
in  thy  likeness,  and  it  is  not  seemly  for  me  to  go  among  the 
deeves?  The  Lord  then  turned  to  Halil  Ibrahim  (Abraham) :  'O 
Halil  Ibrahim,  go,  fetch  my  slipper.'  Halil  Ibrahim  replied  : 
*  Remember,  O  Lord,  that  I  am  thy  beloved  one,  surely  thou 


134  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

hast  slaves  who  will  do  thy  bidding  ?  '  So  the  Lord  Allah 
said  to  Moses  :  '  Go,  fetch  my  slipper.'  And  Moses  answered  : 
*  O  Lord,  am  I  not  thy  law-giver  ?  And  do  the  evil  ones  not 
hate  me  ?  '  Then  Allah  saw  Jesus  and  asked  him  to  go,  but  He 
replied  :  '  O  Allah,  am  I  not  thy  spirit  ?  '  At  length  the  Lord 
called  to  Mohammed,  on  whose  name  be  peace  :  '  O  Moham- 
med, surely  thou  wilt  fetch  my  slipper  ?  '  And  our  Lord 
Mohammed  bowed  his  head  as  he  replied  :  '  O  my  Lord, 
I  hear  and  I  obey,  for  am  I  not  thy  Prophet  ?  '  and  went." 
Hassan  added,  laughing  :  "  Christians,  I  mean  proper  Chris- 
tians, not  such  as  thou  and  the  Ho-wagar  (master),  would  say 
that  he  never  came  back." 

Another  tale  was  about  two  fellaheeii.  One  asked  :  "  If 
Allah  were  to  die,  who  would  bury  him  ?  "  His  friend 
answered  :  "  O  thou  of  small  understanding,  how  canst  thou 
talk  so  foolishly — like  a  child  ?  Of  course,  the  angels  would 
bury  him."  To  which  the  first  repHed  :  '  O  thou  of  httle  faith 
and  no  knowledge,  thou  talkest  wildly.  Will  not  our  Prophet, 
who  is  sharper  than  any  monkey,  bury  him  ?  " 

While  laughing  at  Hassan's  story  my  donkey  pushed  against 
an  old  Arab,  so  I  stopped  to  ask  if  he  were  hurt,  and  we  were 
most  polite  to  each  other  and  parted  with  many  salaams  ; 
he  telhng  Hassan  that  I  must  be  a  daughter  of  an  English 
Pasha,  because  I  was  so  civil.  This  set  Hassan  off,  and  he  said  : 
"  It  is  most  fortunate,  O  Sitt^  that  he  was  a  well-bred  man  ; 
not  like  those  who  took  the  Copt  before  the  Cadi.  It  is  true 
he  did  not  have  the  good  manners  to  stop  and  make  excuses." 

"  What  is  the  story  of  the  ill-mannered  Copt,"  I  asked. 

"  A  Copt  riding  a  fast  donkey  through  a  crowded  street 
knocked  down  some  Mohammedan  children,  and  then  urged 
his  donkey  on  still  faster.  But  he  was  followed,  caught,  and 
taken  before  the  Cadi.  '  Why,  O  Christian,  dost  thou  knock 
down  true  believers  ?  '  The  Copt  shook  his  head  and  did  not 
answer.  '  Hast  thou  not  a  tongue,  O  man  ?  '  The  Copt 
remained  silent,  and  the  Cadi  turned  to  his  accusers  and  said  : 
'  Why  do  ye  bring  a  dumb  man,  O  ye  oxen  of  no  understand- 
ing ?  '  '  O  Cadi,  O  our  Lord,  he  is  not  dumb,  for  he  shouted, 
riglick,  shemalik,  amenick  (To  the  right,  to  the  left,  take  care) 


REMINISCENCES  135 

in  the  street.'  *  Why  then  did  ye  not  take  the  children  from 
out  of  his  path  if  he  called  to  them  and  warned  them,  O  ye 
foolish  ones  ?  '  " 

The  intelligence  of  my  small  black-and-tan  terrier  excited 
much  wonder  and  admiration.  "  Wallah,  the  creature  under- 
stands thy  language.  Art  thou  sure  it  is  not  a  Ginnee  ?  Does 
it  stay  with  thee  during  Ramadan  ?  "  inquired  Hassan  rather 
anxiously.  I  did  not  understand  what  he  meant  and  asked  for 
information.  He  said  that  during  the  fast  all  the  Ginn  were 
imprisoned,  so  that  if  "  Bob  "  were  a  Ginnee,  he  must  be  an 
Efreet  among  Ginn  (i.e.  most  powerful)  to  be  able  to  remain 
at  large  during  Ramadan.  "  Sprinkle  salt  in  thy  rooms,  O  Sitt, 
on  the  first  day  of  Bairam,  saying,  '  In  the  name  of  Allah  the 
Compassionate,'  then  wilt  thou  know  whether  it  be  an  Efreet 
or  not." 

Hassan  waxed  very  eloquent  about  a  tree  whicli  grows  in 
paradise  and  is  tended  by  the  angels.  "  It  has  leaves  like  the 
sand  of  the  sea,  so  many  that  none  can  count  them.  Every 
man  has  his  leaf,  whereon  is  writ  his  name  and  the  name  of 
his  father,  so  that  there  may  be  no  mistakes.  In  the  evening 
of  the  middle  day  of  the  month  of  Shaaban,  when  the  sun  goes 
down,  the  tree  quivers  and  shakes,  and  the  leaves  of  those  who 
are  to  die  during  the  year  fall,  and  none  can  save  them." 

The  notion  of  lucky  and  unlucky  days  is  not  confined  to 
"  illiterate  Arabs."  A  rich  Jew  in  Alexandria  would  do  no 
business  on  a  Friday  because  it  was  an  unlucky  day.  If  a  cat 
ran  across  his  path  as  he  left  his  house,  he  would  turn  back, 
go  to  bed,  and  take  physic.  I  told  him  he  was  wrong  about 
Friday,  as  the  Arabs  called  it  el-jadeelah,  or  the  excellent. 
Whereupon  he  informed  me  that  all  Orientals  were  stupid 
and  grossly  superstitious. 

In  April  Alexandria  was  en  fete.  The  Sultan  arrived  on  the 
7th  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  powerful  vassal,  the  new  Viceroy, 
Ismail  Pasha.  Intrigues  at  Constantinople,  to  prevent  him 
from  coming  to  see  a  country  so  far  in  advance  of  his  own, 
had  been  so  incessant  that  few  people  believed  he  would  come. 
The  firing  was  like  a  bombardment,  and  the  illuminations  in 
the  evening  w^ere  wonderfully  picturesque.    He  drove  through 


136  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

the  streets  with  a  guard  of  splendid  men  dressed  like  zouaves 
with  white  burnouses,  which  fluttered  in  the  air  as  their  horses 
shied  and  reared  at  the  glaring  torches  and  the  bouquets  of 
fireworks.  Thousands  of  Arabs  flocked  round  his  carriage, 
the  sdis  beating  them  off  right  and  left  to  make  room.  The 
"  Son  of  the  Sun  "  sat  perfectly  impassive,  looking  rather 
sulky,  all  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  gorgeous  carriage,  like  a 
dressed-up  doll.  Next  day  he  received  the  Consuls-General, 
when  they  say  he  made  rather  a  good  speech  ;  afterwards  he 
drove  out  to  Moharrem  Bey  palace  on  the  canal.  In  addition 
to  his  own  guards  there  were  thirty  or  forty  of  the  late  Viceroy's 
Saracen  troops,  dressed  in  old  chain  armour,  like  crusaders. 
They  looked  very  splendid  and  picturesque,  but  rather  theatri- 
cal. The  following  morning  he  left  for  Cairo,  and  I  was  told 
he  was  astonished  and  delighted  with  the  railway,  but  at  first 
afraid,  and  that  he  gave  strict  orders  the  train  was  to  go  very 
slowly.  Many  of  the  old-fashioned  Moslems  made  their 
wills,  believing  that  the  end  of  the  world  was  approaching, 
else  the  Representative  of  the  Prophet  would  never  have  left 
his  own  country.  Their  belief  was  confirmed  when  on  the 
22nd  we  had  rather  a  severe  earthquake.  Henry  Oppenheim 
had  brought  a  friend  of  his  from  Constantinople  to  dine 
with  us,  who  turned  green  at  the  first  shock,  which  I  thought 
was  only  the  violent  gale  shaking  our  house.  The  second  was, 
however,  unmistakable.  The  noise  was  tremendous,  like  a 
battery  of  artillery  coming  upstairs.  With  one  bound  Oppen- 
heim's  friend  jumped  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  and 
pulled  the  curtains  round  his  terrified  face.  I  could  not  help 
laughingj  though  I  was  frightened,  and  instinctively  rushed 
to  the  lamp,  which  was  rocking  on  the  table,  and  held  it  tight. 
One  wall  of  our  house  was  split  open  from  the  bottom  to  the 
first  floor,  and  the  grooms  had  hard  work  with  the  horses ; 
two  of  them  broke  their  halters  in  their  terror,  and  then  began 
to  fight.  The  weather  was  completely  upset  by  the  earthquake 
for  more  than  a  week ;  such  wind  I  never  felt  before,  and  un- 
fortunately my  mother  came  down  from  Cairo  to  stay  with  us 
in  the  middle  of  the  storm.  After  a  fortnight  she  was  forced 
to  go  back,  as  the  damp  of  Alexandria  brought  on  severe 


REMINISCENCES  137 

attacks  of  coughing.  While  she  was  with  us,  to  her  great  amuse- 
ment and  to  my  pride,  Mowbray  Morris  proposed  that  I  should 
be  the  limes  correspondent.  I  felt  several  inches  taller,  and 
at  once  announced  the  great  event  to  Kinglake,  who 
answered  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 

House  of  Commons,  June  i,  1863. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

Fancy  your  being  raised  to  the  dignity  of  '  our  own 
correspondent.'  One  effect  will  be  that  I  shall  always  read, 
and  read  with  interest,  the  letters  in  the  Times  from  Alexandria. 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  kind  letter  and  to  hear  that  you 
like  poor  old  Eothen's  attempt  at  a  history.  Always  recollect, 
my  dear  Janet,  that  I  did  not  publish  the  wicked  book  until 
after  I  had  practised  impudence  by  saying  '  Bo  '  to  those 
geese  on  the  common  near  Esher. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  see  the  '  Dear  Old  Boy  '  very  rarely. 
I  am  sure  we  both  like  each  other  as  much  as  ever,  but  somehow 
we  have  got  into  different  grooves  of  life,  which  seem  to  keep 
us  asunder. 

I  wish  you  were  coming  home  this  year.  It  would  do  me 
good  to  see  you  once  more,  and  be  '  taken  out  riding  '  as  in 
the  old  times ;  but  I  fear  you  would  find  me  more  fettered 
for  time  than  you  can  imagine  possible  in  me.  I  know  you 
never  the  least  believed  in  me  as  a  character  sitting  in  com- 
mittees and  reading  Blue  Books,  and  calhng  upon  '  the  House  * 
to  take  a  serious  view  of  this  or  that  important  question ; 
and  I  fear  you  are  not  so  far  from  being  right  as  I  could  wish. 

Do  you  know,  I  was  riding  to-day  in  the  Park  with  a  little 
girl  (thirteen  years  old)  and  filling  her  mind  with  wonderment 
at  the  account  I  gave  her  of  you  and  your  cob  jumping  up 
perpendicularly  towards  the  sky.  Remember  me  to  your  dear 
mother  when  you  see  her.    Always,  my  dear  Janet, 

Your  affectionate 

A.  VV.  Kinglake." 


138  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

In  June  Prince  Napoleon  and  his  wife  came  to  Egypt,  and 
at  a  ball  given  in  their  honour  M.  de  Lesseps  introduced  me 
to  Princess  Clotilde.  She  was  certainly  not  good-looking,  but 
her  charming  manners  and  peculiarly  sweet  voice  were  very 
taking.  The  Prince  and  Princess  must  have  had  extraordinary 
command  over  their  countenances,  for  the  collection  of  queer- 
looking  people  was  great,  all  staring  at  them  as  though  they  were 
a  Punch-and-Judy  show.  Halim  Pasha  came  to  Alexandria 
to  pay  his  respects  to  Prince  Napoleon,  and  met  me  out  riding 
the  filly  my  father  had  given  me.  He  refused  to  believe  that 
her  mother  was  an  English  thoroughbred,  declared  she  must 
be  a  very  high-bred  Saglazvee,  and  to  my  disgust  made  such 
a  point  of  buying  her  that  my  husband  did  not  like  to  refuse. 
I  told  him  a  friend  had  her  sister,  and  he  asked  me  to  get  her 
for  him.  So  when  I  sent  my  father  what  the  Prince  had  given 
for  the  filly,  I  told  him  to  ask  "  Signor  "  whether  he  would  sell 
his  mare.  He  wanted  a  bigger  horse  for  hunting,  so  both  Celia's 
fillies  came  out  to  Egypt. 


CHAPTER    IX 


Janet  Ross  to  Sir  Alexander  Du^  Gordon. 

Alexandria,  July  28,  1863. 

"  '^T  HAVE  missed  a  mail,  my  dear  Old  Boy,  but  this 
I  budget  will  tell  you  why.  M.  Guichard  asked  us 
I  to  go  to  Tel-el-Kebir,  to  see  the  fete  of  Abou 
.^L.  Nichab,  an  Abyssinian  saint  who  died  hundreds 
of  years  ago  near  Assouan,  higli  up  the  Nile.  Long  after- 
wards a  devout  bedazcee  stole  one  of  the  saint's  arms 
and  brought  it  to  the  Suez  desert,  where  he  built  a 
small  tomb  near  an  oasis  some  twelve  miles  from  Tel-el- 
Kebir,  in  w'hich  he  buried  it.  Abou  Nichab,  being  a  saint, 
did  things  in  topsy-turvy  fashion,  and  instead  of  recalling  his 
arm,  transported  his  body  to  where  the  stolen  limb  had  been 
put.^  This  being  the  six  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
miracle,  many  bedazveen  were  expected.  Unfortunately 
Henry  was  alone  at  the  bank,  and  could  not  go.  I  left  Alex- 
andria on  the  morning  of  July  20  and  reached  Zag-a-Zig  at 
three  in  the  afternoon.  The  heat  was  tremendous,  and  you 
may  imagine  my  dismay  when  I  found  that  my  telegram 
to  Guichard  had  not  been  sent  on,  the  French  clerk  having 

*  A  feebler  counterpart  to  Abou  Nichab  I  afterwards  found  at  the  old  Abbey  o 
Settimo,  near  Florence.  A  small  nepliew  of  the  prior's  showed  us  a  silver  casket 
which  contained  the  bones  of  S.  Quentin.  "  More  than  a  thousand  years  ago,"  be 
said, '' S.  Quentin  was  beheaded  in  Paris,  and  miraculously  transported  his  body  to 
that  church  you  see  on  the  other  side  of  the  Arno.  But  the  saint  did  not  like  it, 
it  is  not  nearly  as  fine  as  ours,  so  the  silver  casket  floated  across  the  river  and  in 
1187  was  brought  here  and  placed  in  front  of  the  high  altar.  Ma  non  era  ancora 
ioddiifdto,  pc-ver  'uomo  (but  the  poor  man  was  not  yet  satisfied).  Every  morning 
the  monks  found  him  in  this  chapel,  and  here  he  is,  but  without  his  licad,  for  he 
could  not  linJ  it  when  he  left,' 

139 


140  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

gone  to  see  the  fete.  His  Berber  servant  said  he  thought  he 
could  work  the  telegraph,  and  sent  a  message,  a  wonderful 
rigmarole,  to  Tel-el-Kebir,  asking  Guichard  to  come  and 
fetch  me.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  Tel  is  twenty  miles 
away. 

Then  I  sallied  forth  to  see  whether  I  could  discover  any 
kind  of  conveyance.  All  I  found  was  a  camel  bringing  in  a 
load  of  chopped  straw.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Jane's 
face  when  I  proposed  that  we  should  scramble  into  the  empty 
bags,  one  on  either  side.  She  does  not  like  Egypt.  Her  sense 
of  propriety  is  always  being  outraged.  I  had  just  settled  to 
ride  the  camel  to  Tel-el-Kebir  and  send  the  pony-chaise 
to  fetch  her  and  our  luggage,  when  a  cabriolet,  with  ■  one 
spring  broken,  came  slowly  along  the  dyke  of  the  Bahr-em- 
Moise,  the  fresh-water  canal  which  flows  past  the  Tel.  The 
wretched  mare  had  just  done  twenty  miles,  and  sixty  the 
day  before.  So  I  had  her  fed  and  rubbed  down,  and,  to  the 
horror  of  the  sdis,  poured  a  bottle  of  beer  I  found  in  the 
telegraph  office  down  her  throat.  Then  I  persuaded  the  owner 
of  the  camel  to  harness  him  in  front  of  the  mare.  Our  pro- 
gress was  slow,  and  after  tour  miles  the  camel  lay  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  grunted,  and  refused  to  budge.  With 
infinite  trouble  we  dragged  mare  and  cabriolet  over  him  and 
went  on.  It  was  getting  dark,  the  jackals  and  night  birds  began 
to  make  strange  sounds,  and  Jane,  who  was  much  alarmied 
when  a  shot  echoed  in  the  distance,  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief 
as  M.  Guichard  galloped  up,  followed  by  the  pony-chaise. 
You  may  imagine  how  tired  and  hungry  we  were  when  we 
reached  Tel-el-Kebir  at  ten  o'clock.  Before  daybreak  the 
whole  household  was  bustling  about  loading  camels  with  tents, 
mattresses,  cooking  utensils,  live  sheep,  and  caged  fowls. 
At  sunrise  I  saw  from  my  window  the  little  caravan  start 
for  Abou  Nichab,  the  cook  perched  high  on  the  top  of  a  pile 
of  mattresses,  swaying  backwards  and  forwards  like  a  ship 
at  sea.  At  two  we  mounted  under  a  burning  sun,  but  though 
the  thermometer  was  near  a  hundred  (far  higher  than  in  Alex- 
andria), one  did  not  feel  the  heat  so  much  in  the  dry,  light 
air  of  the  desert.     I  left  Jane  behind  with  the  old  French 


REMINISCENCES  141 

housekeeper,  Ferine,  as  my  tent  was  too  small  for  two  people 
to  sleep  in,  and  also  because  she  could  not  ride.  We  took  the 
greyhounds  with  us,  and  after  skirting  the  cultivated  land  for 
about  eight  miles,  struck  straight  across  the  desert.  With 
our  white  abbayeh,  or  cloaks,  and  our  kufieh  (l^rge  gaily  striped 
silk  kerchiefs)  wound  round  our  hats,  one  end  being  brought 
over  the  face,  like  a  yashmak,  to  prevent  our  skins  from  being 
blistered  by  the  sun,  we  looked  like  a  troop  of  bedaween. 
A  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance,  shots,  and  faint  shouting, 
heralded  the  approach  of  seventy  or  eighty  horsemen.  They 
charged  down  upon  us  at  full  gallop,  and  then  circled  round 
and  round,  firing  into  the  air,  and  shaking  their  long  spears, 
tipped  with  a  tuft  of  ostrich  feathers,  above  their  heads,  as 
they  greeted  Guichard,  who  is  most  popular.  They  eyed 
me  curiously,  and  at  last  expressed  their  sorrow  at  my  having 
lost  a  leg,  and  their  wonder  at  my  being  able  to  sit  a  horse. 
A  side-saddle  was  a  novelty,  as  the  bedazveen  women  ride  astride 
like  the  men.  With  our  wild  escort  we  galloped  to  the  camp, 
and  were  met  by  music — a  drum  and  a  flute.  On  a  small 
hillock  a  big  tent  had  been  pitched  for  our  dining-room  and 
for  the  men  to  sleep  in,  a  tiny  one  stood  close  by  for  me. 
All  round  were  the  small  brown  tents  of  the  5000  or  6000 
hedaween  who  had  come  to  the  Eed,  or  festival.  Some  were 
from  high  up  the  Nile,  others  had  come  from  Syria.  One 
of  the  Sheykhs,  they  told  me,  could  call  out  20,000  men  to 
battle.  He  was  invited  with  seven  others  to  take  coffee 
in  the  tent.  Guichard's  Berber  servant,  learned  in  European 
ways,  brought  the  first  cup  to  me,  whereupon  Mohammed 
Hassan,  the  great  Sheykh,  rose  and  walked  away  in  high 
dudgeon,  saying :  *  Who  is  this,  a  creature  without  a  soul, 
that  she  should  be  served  before  one  who  can  summon  a 
whole  people  to  arms  ?  '  Guichard  remarked  to  the  others 
that  the  Sultan  of  the  English  was  a  w^oman,  and  that  women 
were  highly  honoured  in  Europe.  But  I  felt  uncomfortable 
at  having  been  the  innocent  cause  of  the  Sheykh's  anger.  ^ 
At  dusk  we  dined  under  difficulties.  Our  table  tilted  in 
the  loose  sand,  our  lights  blew  out,  and  a  stray  dog  stole 
the   roast  lamb.     We  were  a  most  jovial  party  nevertheless. 


142  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

When  the  moon  rose  we  strolled  out  among  the  Arab  tents, 
and  hearing  the  jingle  of  a  tambourine  went  to  listen  to  the 
music.  The  singer  recognized  Guichard  from  afar,  and  to 
our  amusement  and  his  evident  discomfort  came  to  meet 
him  singing  :  '  O  Frangi  who  loves  the  Arabs,  who  rides  like 
a  bedawee^  whose  shot  never  misses,  who  is  strong  as  Antar 
yet  gentle  as  a  woman,  who  never  oppresses  the  poor,  whose 
house  is  open  to  all,  who  raises  not  the  courbash  against  the 
suppliant.'  '  Oest  fort  genant^  he  said  to  me,  as  after  every 
line  a  chorus  of  '  She  speaks  gold,'  or  '  By  Allah  it  is  true,' 
resounded.  The  graceful  girl,  her  arms  above  her  head 
striking  the  tambourine,  her  face  hidden  by  a  dark  blue  veil 
covered  with  strings  of  gold  coins  which  glittered  in  the 
flaring  light  of  the  meshaals^  or  torches,  made  a  wonderful 
picture  against  the  wild,  dark  figures  of  the  beiaween.  They 
kept  time  by  clapping  their  hands,  and  when  they  particularly 
admired  a  verse  roared  out  A-a-a-a-h !  Some  derwishes  passed 
with  green  and  white  flags,  a  drum,  shrill  waiHng  nays,  and 
a  crowd  of  men.  We  followed  them,  and  found  a  zikr,  or  re- 
ligious exercise,  was  just  beginning.  The  men  of  God  stood 
round  the  flags  looking  very  jolly  and  unconcerned  as  they 
chanted  rather  lazily  the  attributes  of  Allah.  '  O  most  wonder- 
ful ;  O  most  merciful ;  Allah  is  great,  He  is  all-powerful. 
Our  Lord  Mohammed  is  His  Prophet.  Allah  !  Allah  !  '  A 
circle  of  men  formed  round  the  derwishes,  who  gradually 
became  more  and  more  excited,  bowing  their  heads  to  the 
ground,  and  shouting  Allah  !  Allah  !  They  began  to  tear  off 
their  clothes  and  foam  at  the  mouth,  and  when  an  old  man  fell 
at  my  feet  in  a  fit  we  went  back  to  the  tent. 

Sleep  was  impossible.  Two  frogs — heaven  only  knows  where 
they  came  from — sat  on  my  bed ;  those  I  put  outside ;  but 
many  crickets  and  fleas  were  determined  to  be  my  bedfellows. 
Guichard's  faithful  bedazvee,  Saoud,  son  of  the  Sheykh 
who  had  settled  in  the  Wady  under  French  protection,  had 
been  appointed  my  bodyguard,  and  lay  outside  the  door  of 
my  tent,  where  he  snored  aloud.  The  dogs  barked,  the  tethered 
horses  neighed  and  screamed,  and  the  heat  was  stifling.  I 
got  up  and  opened  a  slit  in  the  tent,  when  Saoud  actually 


REMINISCENCES  143 

woke  up  and  asked  me  what  I  wanted.  If  you  knew  how  Arabs 
sleep  you  would  realize  that  his  responsibility  weighed  heavily 
on  him.  At  three  I  dressed  and  sent  Saoud  to  call  Guichard 
We  had  some  coffee,  and  then  went  to  look  after  the  horses. 
To  my  utter  dismay  I  found  the  sdis  had  left  my  saddle  on 
Shaheen,  one  of  the  Tel  horses,  '  to  keep  him  warm.'  The 
beast  had  rolled,  and  the  third  pummel  was  broken  off.  You, 
my  dear  Old  Boy,  will  enter  into  my  feelings  when  I  tell  you 
that  Guichard  had  sent  to  ask  the  scornful  Sheykh  Mohammed 
Hassan  to  lend  Sheitan  (the  devil)  a  well-known  and  vicious 
horse,  to  the  English  lady.  Visions  of  a  disgraceful  spill 
rose  before  me.  To  try  whether  I  could  stick  on  without  a 
third  pummel,  we  mounted  and  rode  to  see  that  the  flags  had 
been  properly  placed  for  a  four-mile  race  for  which  Guichard 
had  given  twenty  napoleons.  The  bedazveen  had  not  seen 
us  go,  but  many  came  to  meet  us  on  our  return,  and  escorted 
us  to  the  tomb  of  Abou  Nichab.  There  Sheitan  was  waiting, 
showing  the  whites  of  his  eyes  in  ominous  fashion,  and  while 
the  men  went  into  the  tomb — I,  as  a  mere  woman,  could  of 
course  not  go  in — I  made  Saoud  put  my  saddle,  and  pelham 
bit  with  a  running  martingale,  on  him.  The  favourite  for 
the  race  was  pointed  out  to  me,  a  white  Anazieh  horse,  ugly, 
but  with  splendid  hind-quarters,  a  short  back,  and  sloping 
shoulders.  I  asked  Guichard  to  let  me  ride  in  the  race  in  order 
to  quiet  Sheitan,  and  to  give  the  signal  to  start  as  soon  as  I 
was  in  the  saddle.  The  horse  tried  to  rear,  but  was  balked 
by  the  martingale,  and  when  he  felt  a  light  hand  humouring 
him  soon  settled  down  into  a  swinging  gallop.  I  confess 
that  I  carefully  rode  him  through  the  deepest  sand-drifts 
I  could  see,  as  I  wanted,  not  to  win  the  race  but  to  sober  my 
horse. 

The  favourite  came  in  first  by  two  hundred  yards,  his  own 
sister  second,  and  a  horse  belonging  to  one  of  Guichard's  staff 
was  third.  The  other  thirty-two  competitors  complained 
loudly  that  the  start  had  been  unfair,  so  the  race  was  run  over 
again,  and  the  white  horse  won  by  five  hundred  yards.  You 
would  have  laughed  at  his  jockey,  a  boy  of  fourteen,  who 
deliberately    stripped,    and    when    told    some    clothing    was 


144  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

necessary  tied  an  old  rag  round  his  middle.  He  had  no  saddle 
and  only  a  bit  of  rope  as  a  bridle.  The  Anazieh  rejoiced 
greatly  at  the  victory  of  their  favourite,  for  which  they  had 
refused  j^8oo.  We  were  admiring  him  after  the  race  when 
some  of  the  hedaween  came  up  and  begged  us  not  to  notice 
him,  for  fear  of  the  evil  eye.  He  was  sent  away  into  the 
desert,  and  only  brought  back  to  camp  after  dark. 

As  we  rode  back  from  the  tomb  the  greyhounds  started 
a  hare  and  we  had  a  good  run,  Sheitan  going  like  a  park  hack. 
When  we  pulled  up,  to  my  surprise  the  great  Sheykh  Mo- 
hammed Hassan  rode  up  to  me,  salaamed,  and  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  my  French  friends,  who  teased  me  ever  afterwards 
about  my  conquest,  said  :  '  O  lady,  by  Allah,  thou  ridest 
like  ten  hedaween^  and  Saoud  tells  me  thy  conversation  is 
such  that  thy  husband  would  not  need  go  to  the  coffee-shop 
for  entertainment  or  knowledge.  When  tired  of  thy  white 
master  come  to  the  tent  of  Mohammed  Hassan.  By  the  head 
of  my  father,  O  lady,  I  will  stand  before  thee  like  thy  mame- 
luke  and  serve  thee  like  thy  slave.'  When  we  returned  to 
the  tent  the  Sheykh  '  executed  himself '  handsomely,  by 
insisting  on  bringing  me  coffee  with  his  own  hands,  alia  Trangee, 
So  some  day  you  may  see  your  daughter  the  favourite  wife 
of  an  Arab  Sheykh,  and  come  to  hunt  gazelles  in  the  real 
desert. 

The  heat  at  midday  was  overpowering.  Not  a  sound  was 
to  be  heard  save  loud  snores.  Even  the  dogs  were  quiet. 
About  four  we  were  summoned  to  see  a.  fantasia,  performed 
in  our  honour,  and  sat  in  state  in  front  of  the  tent,  while  the 
hedaween  prepared  for  mock  combat.  Shouting  their  war- 
cries,  they  charged  down  on  a  supposed  enemy,  firing  off  guns 
and  pistols  and  shaking  their  long  spears  high  in  the  air. 
Then,  with  sudden  swoop,  they  turned  and  fled,  bending  low 
on  one  side  of  their  horses'  necks  and  firing  backwards.  It 
was  tremendously  exciting  and  I  longed  to  be  amongst  them. 
Then  some  of  them  rode  up,  made  their  docile  little  horses 
kneel  before  us,  shake  hands,  kick  and  rear,  while  others  planted 
their  spears  deep  in  the  sand  and  galloped  round  and  round 
them  until  it  made  one  giddy. 


REMINISCENCES  145 

At  sundown  twelve  of  the  principal  Sheykhs  came  to  dinner. 
We  all  squatted  down  on  the  sand  round  a  huge  brass  tray- 
placed  on  a  low  stool,  and  a  whole  sheep  roasted  and  stuffed 
with  pistachio  nut»  and  raisins  was  placed  before  us.  Mo- 
hammed Hassan  insisted  on  sitting  next  to  me,  and  tore  off 
pieces  of  the  mutton  which  he  put  into  my  mouth — a  great 
honour  and  one  not  to  be  refused  ;  but  it  was  rather  trying, 
particularly  as  I  saw  smiles  curling  round  the  hps  of  the 
Frenchmen.  Then  came  baklazcah,  layers  of  very  thin  paste 
with  honey  between,  most  excellent,  and  much  approved  of 
by  our  guests. 

My  kind  host,  knowing  that  I  had  not  slept,  proposed 
that  w-e  should  ride  back  to  Tel-el- Kebir  and  comfortable 
beds  by  the  light  of  the  full  moon.  We  left  at  nine  o'clock 
attended  by  the  faithful  Saoud.  No  words  can  describe 
how  beautiful  the  desert  was,  or  the  queer  sounds  of  the 
beasts  and  insects  as  we  rode  slowly  across  the  sand-hills, 
our  shadows  looking  like  spectres  by  our  side.  We  reached 
the  Tel  about  half-past  eleven,  and  then  arose  the  question — ■ 
how  were  we  to  get  in  ?  The  maids  did  not  expect  us,  the 
kefir,  or  watchman,  was  fast  asleep,  and  we  could  not  find  the 
key  of  the  door.  You  would  indeed  envy  an  Arab's  power  of  sleep. 
We  banged  the  man's  head  against  the  ground,  we  lifted  him 
up  and  let  him  fall,  we  fired  off  a  pistol  close  to  his  ear.  Then 
we  gave  up  the  attempt  to  wake  him.  I  suggested  going 
round  to  the  back  of  the  old  palace  where  Ferine  and  my  maid 
slept,  and  throwing  stones  at  their  \\-indows.  Jane  had, 
however,  heard  the  shot,  and  being  too  frightened  to  come 
down  the  vdde,  dark  stairs  alone,  had  called  Ferine,  who  opened 
the  door  to  us  in  a  very  bad  temper.  She  held  the  Arabs  in 
profound  contempt.  '  Que  voulez  vous,  Madame,  des  gens  qui 
appellent  le  bon  Dieu  Allah,  et  qui  gardent  leurs  chafeaux  sur  la 
tete  devant  Monsieur.  Un  tas  d^ignorants.'  I  should  not  have 
liked  to  have  been  the  kefir  next  morning. 

Guichard  had  promised  me  a  day's  hawking,  so  at  daybreak 

we  mounted  and  after  an  hour's  ride  saw  a  gazelle.      Abdou, 

with  the  dromedary  and  the  hawks,  w'as  not  ready  when  we  left, 

so  she  got  away.    We  took  the  dogs  to  a  little  oasis  to  drink  and 

L 


146  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

rest  under  the  palm  trees  while  Saoud  prowled  around,  and 
then  came  to  say  that  a  hare  was  asleep  under  a  bush  near  by. 
We  rode  in  the  direction  he  pointed  out,  the  hare  woke,  and 
breasting  a  hill  led  us  a  long  chase.  Guichard's  horse  was 
very  fast,  so  he  got  near  her,  fired,  and  missed.  As  she  turned 
towards  Saoud  and  myself  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups  and  with 
his  long  Arab  gun  put  a  bullet  through  her  head.  It  was  a 
splendid  shot,  and  we  cried  out  :  '  Taib,  Ta  Saoud,  taib  (Well 
done,  O  Saoud,  well  done).'  Whereupon  he  turned  to  me, 
salaamed,  and  said  smiling  :  '  O  lady,  hadst  thou  not  been 
here  I  should  have  done  nothing.  It  is  the  good  fortune 
brought  by  thy  beautiful  eyes.  The  shot  is  thine,  not 
mine.' 

Abdou  now  joined  us  with  M.  de  Carne  and  the  hawks. 
From  his  high  perch  on  the  camel  Abdou  had  seen  a  troop 
of  gazelles,  so  we  held  a  council  of  war.  We  rode  against 
the  wind  about  two  hundred  yards  apart,  and  at  a  signal 
from  Saoud  two  hawks  were  thrown  up.  Away  we  went, 
gradually  closing  in  upon  the  game.  The  hawks  singled  out 
a  gazelle,  and  swooping  down  at  its  head  prevented  it  from 
running  straight.  Syrian  greyhounds  show  their  good  sense 
by  running  '  cunning,'  i.e.  cutting  off  corners,  which  I  remem- 
ber was  considered  a  deadly  sin  at  Amesbury.  After  hard 
riding  for  several  miles  we  got  the  gazelle.  Abdou  then 
signalled  another  troop,  and  again  we  spread  out  in  a  half- 
moon.  But  they  saw  us  and  went  away  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 
As  a  last  chance  two  fresh  hawks  were  thrown  up,  and  Guichard 
made  Elfah,  the  swiftest,  but  the  most  delicate  of  the  grey- 
hounds, jump  up  in  front  of  him,  and  rode  as  hard  as  he  could. 
One  of  the  gazelles  lingered  behind  the  others,  Elfah  sprang 
down,  and  to  our  astonishment  overran  and  knocked  it  over. 
Guichard,  who  was  first  up,  jumped  off  his  horse  and  saved  it 
from  the  dog.  It  was  a  baby,  so  I  begged  for  it,  and  it  rode 
home  on  the  camel,  ten  long  miles.  A  goat  was  procured  as 
foster-mother,  and  Guichard  promised  to  send  it  to  Alexandria 
when  it  was  old  enough.  My  hair,  which  you  know  is  long, 
came  down  on  the  way  back,  and  Saoud  at  first  thought  I 
wore  a  horse's  tail  as  an  ornament  !    How  I  wished  for  you  at 


REMINISCENCES  147 

the  Tel.  Inshallah,  some  day  you  will  come  to  Egypt,  and  see 
the  old  palace  and  its  beautiful  orange  grove.  .  .  . 

Ever  your  affectionate  fV/rd  bit  el  Jel-el-Kebir  (which 
translated  means  '  Rose  of  Tel-el- Kebir),  my  new  name." 

When  I  returned  from  my  desert  trip  I  found  our  friend 
Mr.  Thayer,  the  American  Consul-General  who  was  so  kind 
to  my  mother,  very  ill.  He  had  no  one  to  look  after  him 
but  Berber  servants,  so  I  had  him  wrapped  up  in  blankets 
and  brought  to  our  house.  There  I  nursed  him  day  and 
night  until  he  was  well  enough  to  go  to  Sicily  in  September. 
In  October  my  mother  returned  from  England  and  was 
obliged  to  stay  with  us  for  some  time,  as  an  extraordinarily 
high  Nile  had  washed  away  miles  of  the  railway  between 
Alexandria  and  Cairo.  While  she  was  with  us  my  foolish 
housemaid  Ellen  insisted  on  marrying  our  Greek  cook. 
The  ceremony  was  performed  in  our  dining-room.  Four 
Greek  priests  came  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  after  chanting 
loudly  for  some  time  let  down  their  back  hair,  which  many 
women  might  have  envied,  it  was  so  long  and  so  tine.  They 
took  two  rings  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  three  times  with 
them  on  a  book  (a  copy  of  the  Gospels)  lying  on  the  table.  One 
was  put  on  Ellen's  right-hand  little  finger,  the  other  on  the 
cook's  first  finger.  Two  wreaths  of  orange  blossom  were  then 
blessed  and  the  sign  of  the  cross  made  with  them  three  times 
on  the  book,  after  which  the  wreaths  were  placed  three  times 
alternately  on  the  heads  of  the  happy  couple,  to  the  great  dis- 
arrangement of  their  hair.  Their  Uttle  fingers  were  linked 
together,  and  a  priest  led  them  three  times  round  the  table 
while  sugar-plums  were  thrown  over  them.  The  cook,  solemnly 
walking  along,  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  orange  flowers  cocked 
very  much  on  one  side  of  his  head,  carefully  holding  a  lighted 
candle  and  blinking  his  eves  as  the  sugar-plums  fell  on  his 
face,  was  quite  the  drollest  spectacle  I  ever  beheld,  and  I 
had  great  difficulty  to  prevent  myself  from  laughing  aloud. 
We  all  held  lighted  candles,  and  the  state  of  my  carpet  can 
be  imagined,  with  a  mixture  of  candle-grease  and  sugar-plums 
crushed  well  into  it. 

My  mother  was  obliged  to  hire  a  dahabieh  to  go  up  to  Cairo, 


148  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

as  the  railway  was  impossible.  She  left  at  the  end  of  October, 
and  I  rode  some  way  along  the  Mahmoudieh  Canal  to  see 
the  very  last  of  her.  The  devastation  caused  by  the  high  Nile 
was  terrible,  but  nothing  compared  to  the  cattle  murrain 
which  had  been  raging  for  two  or  three  months.  In  Lower 
Egypt  alone  the  loss  was  calculated  at  twelve  millions  sterling. 
Poor  Hekekyan  Bey  had  one  bullock  left  out  of  seventy  on 
his  farm  near  Cairo,  and  even  the  gazelles  in  the  desert  died. 
It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  ^oox  fellaheen  trying  to  plough  with 
a  camel  belonging  to  one  man  and  a  donkey  belonging  to 
another  yoked  side  by  side,  or  six  or  eight  men  and  veiled 
women  painfully  dragging  at  the  wooden  plough.  From  Cairo 
my  mother  wrote  that  a  M.  Dervieu  had  promised  to  get  her 
the  loan  of  an  empty  house  at  Luxor  called  the  Maison  de 
France,  which  belonged  to  the  French  Government,  but 
his  promises  seemed  to  be  what  the  Arabs  call  "  all  cobwebs." 
So  I  went  to  the  new  French  Consul-General,  M.  Tastu, 
and  was  received  by  his  mother,  a  charming  old  lady,  who 
I  discovered  had  known  Mrs.  Austin  in  Paris  in  1847.  Through 
her  I  got  the  Maison  de  France  lent  to  my  mother,  and  there 
she  lived  for  several  winters,  among  the  people  who  reverenced 
and  loved  her.  The  house  had  been  built  about  1825  by  Mr. 
Salt,  English  Consul-General  in  Egypt,  on  the  top  of  part 
of  the  ancient  temple  of  Khem,  when  he  was  sent  to  Thebes 
by  Belzoni  to  superintend  the  removal  of  the  great  bust  of 
Memnon,  now  in  the  British  Museum.  It  was  afterwards 
bought  by  the  French  Government,  and  inhabited  in  1829 
by  Champollion  and  Rosellini  for  some  time.  In  1831  the 
French  officers  sent  from  Paris  to  remove  the  obelisk  which 
now  stands  in  Place  de  la  Concorde  lived  there  ;  since  then 
the  Maison  de  France  had  been  the  abode  of  owls,  hawks, 
and  snakes. 

George  Meredith  to  Janet  Ross. 

Esher,  December  i,  1863. 
"  My  dearest  Janet, 

I  have  put  back  my  letter,  thinking  I  might  get  some 
book  to  offer  you.    You  know  I  recommended  you  for  Renan's 


REMINISCENCES  149 

Vie  de  Jesus  P  But  our  worthy  and  most  discreet  Bart 
declined  to  have  your  name  mixed  up  with  it.  Now  of  myself 
a  little.  Can  I  ever  forget  my  dearest  and  best  woman- 
friend  ?  And  I  must  be  cold  of  heart  not  to  be  touched  by 
your  faithfulness  to  your  friendships.  I,  who  let  grief  eat 
with  me  and  never  speak  of  it  (partly  because  I  despise  the 
sympathy  of  fools  and  will  not  trouble  my  friends),  am  thereby 
rendered  rather  weak  of  expression  at  times.  The  battle  is 
tough  when  one  fights  it  all  alone,  and  it  is  only  at  times 
that  I  awake  from  living  in  a  darker  world.  But  I  am  getting 
better,  both  in  health  and  spirit.  It  is  my  punishment  that 
I  have  to  tell  you  what  I  never  prove,  that  I  love  you  and  do 
so  constantly.  For  I  hold  nothing  dearer  than  your  esteem, 
my  dear  !  Writing  letters  seems  a  poor  way  of  showing  it, 
and  yet  even  that  I  don't  do  !  But  you  never  vary.  If  you 
were  like  me,  our  lights  would  soon  pass  out  of  sight  of  one 
another,  leaving  me  many  regrets  certainly,  but  I  acknowledge 
you  to  be  the  fixed  star  of  this  union,  as  you  will  be  one  of 
mine  for  ever.  So,  pardon  the  sentimentalism.  As  I  said, 
it's  my  punishment  to  have  to  put  my  case  in  such  a  tone. 
I  fancy,  too,  that  your  instinct  believes  me  true  to  the  memory 
of  our  old  kindness,  careless  of  it  though  I  appear. 

The  noble  Bart,  gave  me  capital  accounts  of  you  and  my 
lost  lady.  The  accident  occurred  to  Arthur  while  she  was  at 
Poole.  When  he  went  to  Norwich  I  started  at  once  for  Italy, 
to  get  fresh  scenery  and  extraneous  excitement.  I  hoped  to 
see  her  on  my  return ;  but  I  heard  she  was  not  alone,  and  in 
the  end,  as  I  was  making  up  my  mind  to  write  for  an  audience, 
the  news  came  that  she  had  just  reached  Calais.  I  smote  my 
undecided  head.  I  am  vexed  beyond  measure  at  having 
missed  her.  The  news  of  her  is  so  good  that  it  tastes  like  fresh 
life  to  me.  On  this  head  please  give  me  particulars.  And  if 
she  could  be  persuaded  to  wTite,  how  glad  I  should  be  ! 

I  am  here  at  Copsham  still.  Next  year  I  shall  have  the 
place  to  myself,  to  buy  or  leave.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  buy 
it,  and  then  it  may  be  made  agreeable  for  friends.  At  present 
none  but  men  can  come.  Some  are  usually  here  from  Satur- 
day till  Monday.     Of  the  Esherians  I  see  next  to  nothing. 


150  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

By  the  way,  Izod  behaved  very  nicely  in  his  attendance  on 
Arthur.  Just  as  you  said  would  be  the  case.  He  was  cheerful 
from  the  first.  You  can  conceive  my  condition.  From  six 
in  the  evening  to  half-past  four  in  the  morning  my  darling 
was  insensible,  only  saving  once  :  '  Oh  !  is  it  a  dream  ?  '  and 
staring  wildly.  He  had  elastic  boots,  and  this  fact  saved  him. 
If  the  boot  had  not  come  off,  he  would  have  been  dragged 

till 1  have  looked  over  the  pit.     I  don't  think  I  misbehaved 

myself,  and  I  certainly  did  not  reproach  poor  Wyndowe — 
of  whose  folly  we  will  not  speak,  seeing  that  he  won't  renew 
it.  There  is  every  reason  to  feel  sure  that  Arthur  has  taken 
no  damage  whatever ;  nor,  I  think,  is  his  pluck  at  all 
lessened. 

Your  Holbeins  !  I  went  to  get  them  done,  and  was  told 
that  the  Kensington  Museum  had  been  remonstrated  with 
by  photographers  generally,  and  had  abandoned  the  work. 
I  tried  to  get  Dante  Rossetti  to  give  me  his.  I  have  thought 
of  various  things  to  supplant  them,  but  jewels  seem  the  only 
resource,  though  I  can't  bear  to  see  them  either  on  arm,  or 
neck,  or  fingers.  You  will  receive  something  or  other  (over- 
looking my  bad  taste)  with  my  novel  in  January.  It  is  called 
Emilia  in  England,  antiposed  to  Emilia  in  Italy,  which  is  to 
follow — both  in  three  vols.  The  first  is  a  contrast  between 
a  girl  of  simplicity  and  passion  and  our  English  sentimental, 
socially  aspiring  damsels.  The  second  (in  Italy)  is  vivid 
narrative  (or  should  be).  I  hope  you  will  like  it ;  I  can't 
guess  whether  you  will.  You  saw,  I  suppose,  that  the  Saturday 
Review  has  gently  whipped  me  for  Modern  Love.  I  am  not 
the  worse.  And  doubtless  the  writer  meant  well.  I  regret 
to  say  that  I  can't  give  up  writing  poetry,  which  keeps  your 
poet  poor. 

You  were  charmed  with  Kinglake's  book  ?  In  style  it  beats 
anything  going,  but  in  judgment  it  is  bad,  and  it  cannot 
take  place  as  a  piece  of  artistic  history.  Here  is  Maxse  writing 
hard  against  it,  he  being  a  fervent  admirer  of  Lord  Raglan 
and  a  just  man.  Kinglake's  treatment  of  the  French  is  simply 
mean.  And  mean,  too,  is  the  position  England  assumes  as 
critic  everywhere — as  actor  nowhere,  if  it   can  be  helped. 


REMINISCENCES  151 

We  are  certainly  in  a  mess  about  the  Congress,  and  the  French 
alUance  is  a  matter  of  the  past. 

I  read  The  Times''  Alexandrian  correspondent  diligently, 
and  catch  the  friend's  hand  behind  the  official  pen. 

Now,  my  dearest  good  Janet,  adieu  for  a  space — till  I  repeat 
it.  Write  to  me.  Give  my  warm  regards  to  your  husband, 
and  know  me  as  ever 

Your  loving 

George  Meredith." 

I  cannot  remember  exactly  in  what  year  Sir  Henry  Bulwer 
came  on  a  visit  to  Egypt,  but  I  think  it  was  in  the  winter  of 
1863.  He  was  received — as  English  ambassador  at  Constanti- 
nople— with  great  honour,  lodged  at  the  Viceroy's  expense, 
and  even  his  chemist's  bills  were  paid.  He  was  an  extremely 
agreeable  man,  but  I  was  glad  when  he  went  up  to  Cairo,  as 
he  used  to  send  in  the  afternoon  to  say  he  was  coming  to  dine 
with  us  and  would  bring  several  people  ;  so  after  the  first 
experience  our  cook  was  warned  to  be  prepared  to  have  dinner 
ready  for  ten  or  twelve  at  a  few  hours'  notice.  One  evening 
a  pane  of  glass  had  been  broken  in  the  dining-room  window, 
and  Sir  Henry  had  a  horror  of  draughts.  I  patched  it  up  as 
well  as  I  could,  but  he  found  it  out,  was  rather  cross,  ate  his 
dinner  with  two  large  shawls  wrapped  round  him,  and  took 
more  little  pills  than  usual  from  various  boxes  he  always 
brought  with  him.  The  following  day  my  husband  was 
summoned  to  Cairo.  I  had  just  finished  dinner  when  our 
servant  Mohammed  rushed  in  to  say  H.E.  the  ambassador  was 
waiting  to  take  me  to  the  opera.  I  went  to  the  door  and  told 
Sir  Henry  I  was  not  dressed  for  going  to  the  theatre,  but  he 
begged  me  to  come,  declared  boredom  would  make  him  ill, 
and  looked  so  cross  and  disappointed  when  I  again  declined 
the  honour,  that  I  had  to  give  way.  The  amusing  thing  was 
that  a  man  who  had  just  come  from  Frankfurt  was  in  the 
stalls,  and  next  day  said  to  a  German  friend  of  mine  :  "  What 
nonsense  is  talked  in  Europe  about  Eastern  women  being 
shut  up.  Last  night  I  was  at  the  opera,  and  the  Viceroy  came 
with  one  of  his  wives.    But  why  was  '  God  save  the  Queen  * 


152  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

played  when  they  entered  the  theatre  ?  The  Vice-queen 
was  as  fair  as  a  European  woman,  but  she  disappointed  me. 
She  had  a  white  mushn  dress  on,  no  jewels,  only  a  red  rose 
stuck  in  her  hair."  He  then  described  me  most  accurately, 
to  the  great  amusement  of  my  friend.  Never  did  I  pass  such 
an  uncomfortable  evening.  Sir  Henry  and  I  sat  in  front  of 
the  Viceregal  box,  while  two  of  the  Egyptian  ministers, 
Shereef  Pasha  and  Nubar  Pasha,  and  Sir  Henry's  suite,  stood 
behind  us.  At  last  I  could  bear  it  no  longer  and  whispered 
to  him  :  "  Do  tell  them  to  sit  down."  He  answered  :  "  It 
does  them  good  to  stand."  However,  a  few  minutes  later  he 
deigned  to  ask  them  to  be  seated. 


CHAPTER   X 

ONE  day  at  Cairo  Halim  Pasha  complained  to  my 
husband  that  a  French  artist  he  had  picked  up 
at  some  bathing-place  did  not  satisfy  him,  and 
asked  Henry  if  he  knew  anyone  who  could  paint 
three  large  pictures  for  his  kiosk.  We  at  once  thought  of 
Phillips,  and  in  March,  1864,  to  my  joy  the  dear  friend  of  my 
childhood  arrived  in  Alexandria.  The  Prince  was  delighted 
with  him  and  with  his  work,  and  Phillips  was  enchanted  with 
all  he  saw,  and  declared  artists  ought  to  come  to  Egypt  to 
learn  what  colour  meant  and  how  beautiful  the  human  figure 
was  when  untrammelled  by  stays,  shoes,  braces,  etc.  Unfortu- 
nately he  could  afford  neither  the  time  nor  the  money  to  go 
up  the  Nile  and  see  my  mother  at  Luxor,  as  we  had  hoped. 
He  did  a  quantity  of  excellent  water-colour  paintings,  in  which 
he  caught  the  marvellous  Egyptian  Hght  better  than  most 
people.  With  our  donkey-boy,  Hassan,  he  made  friends, 
who  afterwards  asked  me  whether  he  was  not  my  uncle,  because, 
like  the  Sitt-el-Kebir,  he  spoke  so  kindly  and  did  not  laugh 
at  Arab  ways. 

In  May  we  had  races  at  Alexandria  ;  Guichard  brought 
his  fast  mare  from  Tel-el-Kebir,  while  Saoud,  with  several 
horses  and  men  of  his  tribe,  encamped  near  the  racecourse ; 
the  hedaween  came  to  see  me  and  I  was  struck  with  their 
perfect  manners.  Some  of  them  had  never  been  inside  a 
European  house,  but  they  stared  at  nothing,  and  talked  as 
composedly  as  though  we  were  sitting  in  one  of  their  tents. 
We  had  coffee  and  cigarettes,  and  Guichard  afterwards  told 
me  they  could  not  understand  why  I  had  so  many  things  in 
my  room  and  thought  my  mind  must  be  much  exercised  in 
looking  after  them.     They  were,  I  saw,  rather  shocked  at  a 

153 


154  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

small  copy  o£  the  Source  by  Ingres ;  some  of  them  glanced 
furtively  at  it  while  we  talked  of  the  chance  of  their  different 
horses.  Poor  fellows  !  they  did  not  win  the  bedazoeen  race, 
and  Guichard's  mare  only  came  in  second  in  another,  owing 
to  the  bad  riding  of  her  jockey. 

We  had  a  very  hot  summer,  and  altogether  it  was  not  a 
fortunate  year.  The  old  bank  of  Briggs  and  Co.  was  merged 
into  the  new  Egyptian  Commercial  and  Trading  Co.,  which 
proved  disastrous  to  us,  I  was  very  much  against  it,  but  the 
other  partner  in  the  bank  wished  to  retire  and  persuaded  my 
husband  to  consent  to  undertake  the  management  of  the  new 
concern.  A  lot  of  Greeks  who  had  already  been  appointed 
agents  in  Upper  Egypt  proved  dishonest,  and  Henry  had  a 
very  trying  time  from  the  first. 

In  November  my  father  came  to  Egypt,  and  was  interested 
and  amused  living  a  VArabe  with  my  mother  in  Cairo.  But 
the  climate  thoroughly  disagreed  with  him,  and  even  a  few 
days  of  the  fine  desert  air  at  Tel-el-Kebir,  which  place  he 
wished  to  see  after  my  description  of  it,  did  not  do  him  any 
good.  I  was  almost  glad  when  he  left  for  England,  in  spite  of 
the  delight  of  having  him  with  me.  Hassan  said  to  me  when 
I  went  to  Cairo  :  "  Mashallah,  O  Sittee,  thy  father  is  truly 
an  Emir.    He  is  never  angry,  and  his  smile  is  like  the  rising  sun." 

The  following  year  I  went  to  England  and  met  a  pleasant 
young  Frenchman  on  the  steamer,  a  Breton  and  therefore  a 
strong  Legitimist,  returning  from  Madagascar.  He  showed  me 
in  a  queer  wicker  cage  a  withered  bough  with  some  green 
leaves  on  it.  These  were  those  curious  insects  which  look  so 
exactly  like  leaves  that  until  they  moved  I  would  not  believe 
they  were  alive.  We  gave  them  all  names.  A  quarrelsome, 
warlike  fellow  was  Ccssar  ;  a  lazy,  fat  one.  Bonne  Grosse  Mere  ; 
a  slender-waisted,  graceful  insect  we  christened  Vlmfera- 
trice  ;  and  a  tiny,  rather  emaciated  one,  Prince  Imperiale. 
The  names  of  the  others  I  have  forgotten,  but  these  I  remember 
as  they  w'ere  the  cause  of  great  uneasiness  to  the  French  police. 
My  friend  wanted  to  stay  a  couple  of  days  at  Marseilles  with 
some  relations,  and  asked  me  to  take  his  precious  insects  to 
Paris  and  to  keep  them  warm.    The  weather  was  rainy  and  chill, 


•^'    'f    85 


^-A"'-  ;    * 


^fS 


JANET  ROSS. 
By  \'a[,entink  Prinsep. 


REMINISCENCES  155 

and  though  I  kept  the  cage  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl  before  a  good 
fire,  poor  slender  Imperatrice  died  and  truculent  Casar  ate 
up  the  little  one — at  least  I  could  find  no  trace  of  him  and 
Ccesar  looked  fatter.  Bonne  Grosse  Mere  was  always  tumbling 
off  her  favourite  twig,  and  looked  weak  and  ill.  In  despair 
I  telegraphed  :  Casar  a  mange  Prince  Imperiale,  VImperatrice 
est  morte^  Grosse  Mere  mourante.  In  consequence  of  my  silly 
telegram  my  friend  was  followed  by  detectives  to  Paris,  en- 
quiries were  made  about  me  at  the  hotel,  and  I  believe  I 
was  watched  as  far  as  Calais.  The  leaf  insects  all  died,  although 
they  were  taken  to  the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation.  Many  a  laugh 
did  we  have  over  the  fright  they  gave  to  the  Government. 
Little  did  the  French  police  know  that  I  always  took  bundles 
of  letters  for  the  Due  d'Aumale,  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  and 
the  Comte  de  Paris,  from  and  to  their  friends  in  Paris,  whenever 
I  crossed  the  Channel. 

In  London  I  stayed  with  Sir  Claude  Scott  and  his  daughter 
Annie  in  Bruton  Street.  She  was  as  fond  of  riding  as  I  was, 
and  had  one  of  the  finest  mares  in  London,  appropriately  named 
Beauty,  a  famous  trotter.  Sir  Claude  treated  me  like  a 
daughter,  indeed  he  called  me  Number  Two,  and  Annie, 
who  afterwards  married  Captain  Torrens,  has  always  been  like 
my  sister.  I  dined  several  times  with  Mrs.  Norton,  and  drove 
with  her  one  day  to  see  Lady  Gifford  at  Highgate,  who  looked 
very  ill.  I  also  dined  with  Mrs.  Simpson,  and  met  our  old  friend 
Madame  Mohl,  more  like  a  touzled  Scotch  terrier  than  ever, 
and,  as  usual,  very  amusing.  Of  course  I  went  to  Aldermaston, 
where  I  met  many  old  friends — Sir  Robert  Collier,  who  gave  me 
a  charming  sketch  of  the  park,  Val  Prinsep,  Kinglake,  Layard, 
etc.,  and  Signor  Castellani,  of  Rome,  who  sang  Italian  popular 
songs  to  perfection.  He  had  an  ancient  large  gold  coin,  or 
medal,  the  head  of  a  young  man,  and  asked  Val  Prinsep  to 
do  a  sketch  of  me  for  him  to  use  as  a  pendant.  I  bargained 
that  I  was  to  have  the  drawing  when  he  had  done  with  it, 
but  only  succeeded  in  getting  it  after  innumerable  letters. 

In  July  I  went  with  my  father  and  httle  sister  to  Paris  to 
meet  my  mother,  but  she  fell  ill  at  Marseilles,  and  my  father 
had  to  go  there  and  bring  her  by  easy  stages  to  Kehl,  where 


156  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  met  them  and  escorted  my  mother  and  Rainy  to  Soden, 
as  my  father  was  forced  to  return  to  London.  At  Soden 
I  heard  bad  news.  Cholera  was  raging  in  Egypt ;  our  house- 
maid was  dead  and  my  husband  very  ilL  I  telegraphed 
that  I  was  starting  by  the  next  boat,  but  an  answer  came  that 
Mr.  Ross  was  better  and  would  soon  leave  for  Homburg. 
Afterwards  I  heard  that  a  week  after  the  cholera  broke  out 
not  an  English  groom  was  left  in  Alexandria  save  our  good 
Robert.  All  the  others  drank,  and  they  died  at  the  first  attack. 
At  Homburg  my  husband  quite  recovered  his  health, 
so  after  spending  some  time  with  him  I  went  by  the  doctor's 
orders  to  Franzensbad,  in  Bohemia,  a  dreary  place  near  the 
picturesque  old  town  of  Eger.  A  friend  had  given  me  a  letter 
to  a  kind  but  profoundly  dull  Austrian  colonel,  who  had  been 
v^rounded  in  the  Danish  war  and  was  doing  a  Kur  at  Franzens- 
bad. He  was  full  of  pity  for  the  poor  English  who  could  not 
go  out  during  the  winter  on  account  of  the  dense  fogs,  and  more 
than  half  believed  me  when  I  told  him  we  ate  whales  and  drank 
oil  in  order  to  generate  heat.  I  should  not  mention  Franzens- 
bad but  for  an  adventure  in  which  I  was  involved  by  the 
foolish  impulsiveness  about  which  Layard  so  often  preached. 
My  sitting-room  was  at  the  end  of  the  house  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  a  waiting-table  stood  against  a  door  leading  into 
another  room.  At  ten  the  hotel  was  closed  and  everyone  was 
supposed  to  go  to  bed,  but  I  generally  sat  up  reading.  One 
night  at  about  half-past  eleven  a  carriage  drove  rapidly  up 
to  the  front  door,  the  bell  was  violently  rung,  and  a  loud, 
harsh  voice  demanded  immediate  entrance.  In  the  next 
room  a  woman  exclaimed  :  Mein  Gott,  zvir  sind  verloren ! 
Mein  Mann  J  I  grasped  the  situation,  and  without  waiting 
to  think  pulled  the  table  away,  unlocked  the  door,  threw  it 
open,  and  rushed  into  the  room.  I  did  not  look  at  the  woman, 
but  said  imperiously  to  Lieutenant  S.,  who  had  been  intro- 
duced to  me  the  day  before  :  Gehen  Sie  da  herein,  pointing  to 
my  room  and  at  the  same  time  seizing  his  sword,  which  was 
in  a  corner.  He  obeyed,  looking  very  sheepish,  and  I  shut  the 
door  just  as  the  owner  of  the  harsh  voice  was  walking  quickly 
down  the  passage.    The  front  door  closed  with  a  bang,  and  the 


REMINISCENCES  157 

thought  suddenly  flashed  across  my  mind — how  on  earth  is 
this  white-coated  officer  to  get  out  of  the  house  ?  I  turned  to 
him  and  asked  :  Nun  was  zvolleri  Sie  jetzt  anfangen  F  He 
flushed  scarlet,  and  stammered  out  that  he  must  remain  where 
he  was  until  all  was  quiet  and  would  then  get  out  of  the  window. 
With  tears  in  his  eyes  he  thanked  me  for  saving  the  lady,  whose 
husband  had  a  fiendish  temper  and  made  her  miserable. 
I  answered  that  I  also  had  a  husband,  who,  although  not  a 
fiend,  might  strongly  object  to  a  lieutenant  being  seen  getting 
out  of  my  window  at  midnight.  The  finale  was  that  when  all 
was  still  he  climbed  out,  and  I  handed  his  sword  carefully 
down,  rather  alarmed  lest  the  chains  and  buckles  should  make 
a  jingle. 

I  was  so  bored  at  Franzensbad  that  I  joined  my  husband  at 
Homburg,  and  in  September  we  went  to  England,  from 
whence  Henry  was  soon  summoned  back  to  Egypt,  while  I 
remained  at  Sir  Claude  Scott's.  In  November  I  went  to 
Woodnorton  for  a  week's  hunting,  the  Due  d'Aumale  lending 
me  a  horse  one  day  and  the  Prince  de  Conde  on  another. 
Henry  Reeve  was  there  and  M.  Estancelin,  le  jeune,  as  he  was 
called,  a  very  agreeable  old  friend  of  the  Duke's,  and  the 
pleasant  secretary  M.  Laugier.  In  the  evenings  we  had  much 
music  ;  the  Duchess  was  an  admirable  musician  and  improvised 
accompaniments  to  my  Italian  and  German  peasant  songs, 
both  of  which  recalled  to  her  youthful  days.  She  told  me  she 
had  sometimes  accompanied  our  Queen  (Victoria),  and  spoke 
with  admiration  of  her  voice,  a  high,  clear  soprano  like  that  of 
Clara  Novello.  The  Duchess  was  the  most  charming,  gay- 
natured,  kindly  woman  I  ever  knew,  adoring  her  husband  and 
her  sons,  and  adored  by  them.  To  their  great  amusement 
and  rather  to  my  discomforture,  le  jeune  Estancelin,  who  was 
older  than  my  father,  made  violent  love  to  me.  He  stole  my 
photograph  out  of  the  Duchess's  book  and  generally  made  a 
fool  of  himself.  There  was  but  one  drawback  to  an  otherwise 
delightful  visit — the  poor  health  of  the  Prince  de  Conde, 
which  his  father  did  not  appear  to  see.  Clever  and  ambitious, 
the  lad  worked  far  too  hard.  A  day's  hunting  was  paid  for 
by  studying  far  into  the  night,  and  I  ventured  to  tell  his  mother 


158  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

that  I  thought  my  dear  young  playmate  was  pale  and  thin. 
She  asked  me  to  say  so  to  the  Duke,  who  repUed  that  Conde 
would  have  plenty  o£  time  for  doing  nothing  when  he  went 
round  the  world  next  year. 

Lord  Clanricarde  gave  me  an  Irish  hunter,  i6i  hands  high 
called  Cast  Iron,  which  he  said  would  jump  anything,  in  spite 
of  a  crooked  leg  on  which  he  wore  a  stocking.  I  only  had  two 
days  with  the  old  Surrey  Union  and  tried  him  over  some  stiff 
fences,  which  he  took  like  a  bird.  After  riding  the  small  Arab 
horses  I  felt  as  though  I  was  perched  on  a  camel,  and  when 
I  took  him  out  to  Alexandria  the  Arabs  cried  out  :  "  See, 
the  Sitt  has  brought  back  an  English  camel;  how  ugly  he  is !  " 
But  they  admired  him  when  before  the  races  I  jumped  him 
over  the  high  wooden  palings  round  the  course.  "  Mashallah, 
that  English  camel  has  wings,"  they  exclaimed.  My  husband 
also  had  a  horse  sent  to  him  by  the  Shereef  of  Mecca,  a  milk- 
white,  exquisitely  shaped  Hamdany,  which  looked  like  a 
mouse  beside  huge  Cast  Iron.  Shereef  could  not  jump, 
but  he  beat  the  Irish  horse  hollow  in  a  long  gallop. 

1866  was  a  disastrous  year.  In  March  my  husband  caught 
a  violent  cold  in  the  train  coming  from  Cairo.  As  usual  the 
windows  were  broken,  and  the  night  was  cold.  For  many  days 
he  lay  in  imminent  danger  with  inflammation  of  both  lungs, 
and  as  he  was  slowly  recovering  the  commercial  crisis  began 
which  ruined  so  many.  Fortunately  the  secretary  of  the  Trad- 
ing Co.  was  a  clever  man,  but  naturally  he  was  afraid  of  responsi- 
bility and  came  perpetually  to  consult  me — as  though  I  knew 
about  business  !  Several  banks  and  commercial  houses  failed 
in  Egypt,  and  I  had  a  telegram  from  my  father  begging  me 
to  come  if  possible  to  London  as  he  had  heard  that  the  Trading 
Co.  intended  to  make  a  call  of  three  pounds  a  share.  We  did 
not  dare  tell  my  husband  how  bad  things  were,  and  the  doctor 
said  he  had  better  be  taken  away  and  suggested  his  going  to 
Sicily  to  recruit.  We  took  our  faithful  coachman  Robert  to 
look  after  him,  and  at  Messina  I  invented  a  story  that  my  father 
had  been  suddenly  taken  ill  and  wanted  me,  and  went  straight 
to  London  via  Marseilles. 

On  that  famous  "  Black  "  Friday  when  the  Agra  and  Master- 


REMINISCENCES  159 

man  bank  and  many  others  failed  I  went  to  the  offices  of  the 
Trading  Co.  Crowds  were  standing  in  front  of  closed  doors 
as  I  drove  through  the  city  ;  men  and  women  with  pale 
faces  and  red  eyes.  At  the  office  I  found  five  or  six  old  gentle- 
men sitting  round  a  big  table  looking  very  lugubrious,  who 
greeted  me  kindly  and  asked  whether  I  had  brought  any  news, 
adding  that  if  the  Viceroy  could  not  be  persuaded  to  pay  at 
once  part  of  the  large  sum  he  owed  us  the  Company  must  fail. 
I  asked  what  steps  had  been  taken  to  get  the  money.  They  did 
not  seem  to  know  and  rang  for  the  secretary,  but  he  was  out. 
I  suggested  that  the  Viceroy's  agent  in  London  should  be 
applied  to,  that  they  told  me  had  been  done  with  no  result. 
Then,  I  said,  telegraph  to  the  British  Consul-General.  That 
was  quite  an  unheard-of  thing  and  not  to  be  thought  of,  they 
answered.  "  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  I  exclaimed 
in  despair.  They  looked  at  one  another,  and  the  chairman 
answered  he  really  did  not  know.  I  felt  angry  and  extremely 
anxious  as  we  held  a  great  many  shares  of  the  Company,  and  not 
only  all  our  available  money  had  gone  to  pay  the  call,  but  my 
father  had  lent  me  what  he  could,  and  a  kind  anonymous 
friend,  who  I  afterwards  found  out  was  Lord  Somers,  had  put 
j^50oo  to  my  name  at  Coutts.  "  Well,  gentlemen,"  I  said,  "  as 
you  can  do  nothing,  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  try  ? "  Sadly 
they  gave  me  permission  to  do  what  I  could,  so  jumping  into 
a  hansom  I  drove  to  the  Foreign  Office  to  see  whether  our 
dear  friend  Layard,  who  was  then  Under-Secretary  for  Foreign 
Affairs,  could  perhaps  help  me.  He  promised  to  telegraph  to 
our  Consul-General  in  Cairo,  and  the  result  was  that  part  of 
the  money  owing  by  the  Egyptian  Government  was  sent  over 
by  the  next  mail.  Meanwhile  I  ordered  our  newsagent  to 
forget  to  send  newspapers  to  my  husband  in  Sicily,  whilst 
I  wrote  him  glowing  accounts  of  imaginary  dinners  and  balls 
to  which  I  had  gone.  By  the  time  the  worst  was  over  he  had 
recovered,  and  went  back  to  Egypt  to  try  and  retrieve  some  of 
the  debts  owing  to  the  Company  in  the  provinces. 

The  anxiety  and  worry  had  made  me  ill,  and  my  father  would 
not  hear  of  my  going  to  Egypt  for  the  hot  weather.  I  am  glad 
I  did  not  as  perhaps  I  might  never  have  known  Italy.      A 


i6o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

pleasant  party,  Lord  and  Lady  Somers,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Higford 
Burr,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Ball,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Malet,  and 
Layard  were  going  to  Venice  to  see  the  entrance  of  King  Victor 
Emanuel  on  the  loth  September.  They  asked  me  to  go  with 
them  and  then  return  to  Egypt  via  Trieste.  When  after  a  night 
in  the  odious  diligence  we  arrived  at  Susa,  I  nearly  shouted  for 
joy  at  the  sight  of  the  masses  of  grapes  hanging  from  the  fergole. 
One  day  we  passed  at  Turin  another  at  Vicenza,  where  we  so 
filled  the  rather  inferior  inn  that  I  and  my  maid  had  to  sleep 
in  a  room  half  full  of  apples.  Our  dinner  was  chiefly  composed 
of  a  huge  dish  of  risotto  with  three  queer-looking  leggy  birds 
reposing  on  the  top.  Lord  Somers  speared  one  on  the  end  of 
his  fork  and  improvised  verses  on  its  forlorn  appearance,  much 
to  Layard's  discomfiture,  as  he  had  been  extolling  the  ex- 
cellent cookery  of  our  host.  Next  day  we  went  to  Padua,  and 
at  the  railway  station  next  morning  found  that  the  railway, 
partially  destroyed  by  the  Austrians,  was  not  yet  repaired. 
A  party  of  Cook's  tourists  at  once  hailed  Layard  as  their  saviour 
and  their  property.  They  were  constituents  of  his  from 
Southwark  and  evidently  thought  their  member  was  bound  to 
conduct  them  safely  to  Venice.  Our  poor  friend  was  surrounded 
by  a  clamouring  crowd  of  indignant  Southwarkians,  none  ot 
whom  could  speak  a  word  of  Italian.  They  appealed  to  him 
for  help  and  utterly  refused  to  listen  to  Cook's  guide,  who 
in  vain  attempted  to  explain  matters.  We  watched  the  scene 
with  great  amusement.  Lord  Somers  whispering  rhymes  to 
his  wife  and  Mrs.  Burr,  of  which  I  only  remember  two  fines  : — 

"  'Tis  by  her  manner  and  demeanour 
You  can  tell  a  Cookamina." 

How  we  rejoiced  at  having  been  forced  to  take  a  boat  at 
Padua  when  on  emerging  into  the  lagoon  we  saw  Venice 
slowly  rise  from  the  sea.  It  was  a  most  beautiful  and  poetical 
sight.  The  campanili  gradually  grew  taller  and  taller  and  then 
the  city  seemed  to  float  on  the  water.  Even  Layard  was 
satisfied  with  my  admiration. 

The  entry  of  the  King  was  a  splendid  spectacle.     Victor 
Emanuel,  ugly  as  he  was,  looked  every  inch  a  king  as  he  stood 


REMINISCENCES  i6i 

on  the  prow  of  the  Bucentoro,  hailed  with  the  wildest  en- 
thusiasm from  the  fleet  of  gondolas  on  the  Grand  Canal  and 
by  the  crowd  on  shore.  All  the  palaces  had  magnificent 
sheets  of  damask  or  embroideries  hanging  from  their  windows, 
even  in  the  poorest  quarters  of  the  town  something  had  been 
suspended,  a  counterpane,  a  shawl,  or  a  small  flag.  The  tri- 
colour waved  everywhere,  and  patriotic  songs  resounded  on  all 
sides.  The  review  on  St.  Mark's  Square  roused  the  Venetians 
almost  to  frenzy.  When  the  agile  little  Bersaglieri  tore  round 
the  Piazza  the  people  positively  danced  with  excitement 
and  shouted  themselves  hoarse.  Malet,  who  appeared  in  his 
red  Guard's  uniform,  was  followed  and  cheered  all  the  way  to 
our  hotel — rather  a  trial  for  a  shy  Englishman.  Suddenly 
I  heard  my  name,  Janet,  called  from  the  crowd,  and  turning 
round  saw  to  my  infinite  joy  my  Poet.  He  was  at  Venice  as 
correspondent  of  the  Morning  Post,  and  as  most  of  the  party  I 
was  with  were  bent  upon  bric-a-brac  hunting,  we  made  several 
excursions  together.  One  whole  day  we  spent  at  Torcello, 
most  beautiful  of  islands,  and  talked  of  the  dear  old  Esher 
days,  of  the  novels  he  had  written  and  was  going  to  write. 
I  tried  to  persuade  him  to  come  with  me  to  Egypt,  but  alas, 
he  could  not. 

I  had  heard  much  about  an  old  friend  of  Layard's,  Mr. 
Rawdon  Brown,  who  long  ago  had  come  to  Venice  for  a  few 
weeks  and  had  been  there  for  thirty  or  more  years.  He  was 
said  to  be  eccentric  and  not  easy  to  make  friends  with.  One 
afternoon  as  we  were  drinking  coffee  on  the  Piazza  he  came  up, 
greeted  those  he  knew  with  effusion  but  took  not  the  slightest 
notice  of  the  others.  He  sat  down  between  Layard  and  myself 
and  put  a  large,  rather  shabby  umbrella  between  his  chair 
and  mine  as  though  to  make  a  barrier.  I  looked  attentively 
at  it  and  at  last  he  turned  round  and  stiffly  asked  :  "  Madam, 
what  is  there  in  my  umbrella  to  interest  you  ?  "  With  a  smile, 
I  replied  :  "  Well,  I  was  only  thinking  it  ought  to  be  placed 
in  a  museum  as  a  specimen  of  a  Gamp."  For  a  moment  he 
looked  stern,  then  began  to  talk,  and  ended  by  inviting  me  to 
come  and  see  his  house  with  frescoes  by  Longhi,  promising  to 
help  me  to  find  descriptions  of  old  Venetian  festivities  I  wanted 

M 


i62  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

for  some  articles  I  was  to  write  for  the  Athenaum.  It  ended 
by  our  becoming  fast  friends,  and  I  passed  much  of  my  time 
hstening  to  his  dehghtful  talk.  Rawdon  Brown  had  a  particular 
dislike  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  declared  he  had  traced  an 
illegitimate  son  of  hers  into  Spain,  where  he  lost  sight  of  him 
at  about  the  age  of  twenty.  Few  people  knew  the  Venetian 
archives  better  than  my  old  friend  ;  he  was  em.ployed  by  the 
Record  Office  to  ferret  out  and  decipher  the  despatches  of  the 
Venetian  ambassadors  to  the  Court  of  St.  James.  My  cousin 
Sir  Henry  Elliot,  British  ambassador  to  Italy,  was  at  Venice, 
and  through  him  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  various  political 
personages  and  of  several  Florentines,  who  afterwards  became 
our  friends. 

The  Bora  was  blowing  hard  when  I  left  Trieste,  and  on 
the  second  day  the  gale  was  so  violent  that  the  cook 
could  not  give  us  any  dinner,  the  captain's  deck  cabin  was 
carried  away,  the  mast  snapped  off,  and  part  of  the  railings 
round  the  ship  were  torn  away.  Some  of  the  Italian  sailors 
were  so  frightened  that  they  knelt  down  and  prayed  to  the 
Madonna  with  tears  streaming  down  their  cheeks,  for  which 
they  got  well  kicked  by  the  Dalmatian  captain.  He  was  a 
splendid  sailor  and  a  pleasant  man.  I  remonstrated  against 
being  sent  below,  and  said  I  would  rather  know  when  we  were 
going  down  than  be  drowned  like  a  rat  in  my  cabin  ;  so  he 
wrapped  me  in  a  mackintosh,  tied  a  chair  to  the  stump  of  the 
mast  and  me  to  the  chair.  The  ship  was  so  knocked  about 
that  my  husband  actually  rowed  past  her  in  Alexandria  harbour 
thinking  she  was  a  wreck. 

In  answer  to  a  letter  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  I  re- 
ceived the  following  characteristic  reply,  imbued  with  what 
Layard  called  his  retrograde  leanings  : — 

Rawdon  Brown  to  "Janet  Ross. 

Casa  della  Vida,  Venice,  December  i8,  1866. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Yesterday  I  took  my  stroll  on  the  Lido  in  a  fog,  and  on 
getting  home  was  glad  to  find  a  blazing  coal  fire  which  showed 


REMINISCENCES  163 

Longhi's  ladies  to  great  advantage.  I  sat  down  to  write 
enjoying  their  mute  society,  and  then  came  Toni  announcing 
dinner  and  presenting  a  letter  left  with  ray  Jew  below  stairs 
by  *  un  Signore.'  It  was  delivered  free,  though  in  my  opinion 
well  worth  postage  as  it  contained  good  news  of  you.  Like  a 
spoiled  child  I  began  my  dinner  with  this  sweetmeat,  and  though 
the  meat  itself  was  neither  plentiful  or  exquisite,  selfishly 
wished  you  had  been  here,  and  that  we  could  have  had  a  chat 
over  your  coifee  at  the  fire's  side  afterwards.  I  had  a  visit  from 
Giovanelli,  and  after  my  compliments  on  his  ball  he  com- 
menced speaking  warmly  about  one  of  its  ornaments  in  a  way 
to  make  Dona  Maria  jealous.  His  description  being  so  graphic 
and  so  much  in  accordance  with  my  own  views  that  I  took 
him  up  to  your  photograph,  which  is  over  my  writing-table 
and  near  the  schoolboard  where  you  did  your  lessons.  Dirge 
masses  have  been  said  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  the  Italian 
martyrs,  Garibaldians,  etc.  :  wherever  those  souls  may  be — 
high  or  low — I  doubt  their  thanking  their  devotees  for  anything 
of  that  sort  :  does  it  not  remind  you  of  what  Lear's  fool 
remarked,  touching  the  cockney,  who  buttered  his  horse's 
hay?  A  fortnight  ago,  sister  Genoa  sent  sister  Pantaloon  a  tri- 
coloured  rag,  brought  by  a  deputation,  consisting  of  sundry 
males  and  one  female  ;  all  lodged  at  the  '  Albergo  Reale.' 
Saturday,  the  ist,  was  the  day  appointed  for  conveying  it 
processionally  to  the  municipality,  and  at  10  a.m.  the  Civics 
and  their  penny  trumpets  marched  to  the  Riva.  The  deputa- 
tion appeared  on  the  balconies,  shivering  ;  the  female  in  ring- 
lets, the  males  in  white  chokers,  swallow-tailed  coats,  and  canary 
coloured  gloves,  such  being  considered  '  gala  '  costume.  The 
flag  was  displayed — but  suddenly  an  orderly  express  was  seen 
hastening  from  the  Ponte  della  Paglia,  in  which  direction 
off  went  half  the  army,  and  the  other  half  was  called  in  Hke 
manner  to  the  Arsenal.  The  deputation  remained  alone  with 
the  fifers,  because  the  national  forces  were  required  to  quell 
riots  at  the  municipality  and  the  Arsenal,  the  populace  pre- 
ferring bread  to  bunting,  and  clamouring  for  work,  which 
being  promised  them,  the  Genoese,  after  two  hours'  delay, 
proceeded  along  the  mercerie  to  the  municipality,  the  female 


i64  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

in  a  porkpie  hat  (probably  a  sempstress)  tugging  at  a  corner  of 
the  flag  to  display  its  embroidery. 

I  hope  the  three-pommelled  saddle  is  in  good  condition 
and  that  you  enjoy  your  rides.  Often  at  Lido  do  I  think  of  the 
race  which  brought  the  Sheik  on  his  knees.  Do  you  remember 
telling  me  about  it  there  ?  By  the  way,  I  rowed  Toni  for 
ever  having  dared  to  frown  upon  you,  saying  moreover 
that  I  was  not  at  home.  He  pleaded  '  not  guilty,'  Rely  upon 
it  that  master  and  man  will  henceforth  receive  you  with  open 
arms,  and  beheve  me  to  be  always,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ross,  heartily 
and  affectionately  yours, 

Rawdon  Brown." 

Our  winter  in  Egypt  was  not  a  gay  one.  Very  wisely  my 
husband  had  sold  all  our  horses  save  two  (poor  Cast  Iron  died 
of  colic  in  the  summer)  ;  every  one  had  lost  money,  many  w^ere 
ruined,  and  business  was  so  bad  that  the  directors  decided  to 
wind  up  the  Egyptian  Commercial  and  Trading  Co.  at  a  terrible 
loss  to  the  shareholders.  We  determined  to  leave  Egypt 
with  what  remained  of  Henry's  hard-earned  fortune,  but  I 
wished  to  see  my  mother  before  going,  and  Nubar  Pasha  very 
kindly  offered  us  a  Government  steamer.  We  started  from 
Cairo  with  a  very  low  Nile,  often  sticking  for  hours  on  a  sand- 
bank, and  anchoring  every  night.  From  Luxor  I  wrote  to  my 
father  : — 

Janet  Ross  to  Sir  Alexander  Dn-ff  Gordon. 

Luxor,  March  ii,  1867. 
"  Dear  Old  Boy, 

Here  we  are  enjoying  Mamma's  wonderful  talk,  all  we 
wish  for  is  that  you  were  here  too.  The  little  village  is  bubbling 
with  excitement.  Eed  keteer  (great  festival)  said  a  man. 
We  got  here  at  eight  in  the  morning  of  the  9th  and  the  heat 
was  tremendous.  You'll  hardly  believe  that  when  my  small 
black-and-tan  terrier  Bob,  which  I  am  going  to  leave  with 
Mamma,  ran  ashore  before  me  and  immediately  began  to  howl, 
I  found  his  poor  tiny  feet  had  been  blistered  by  the  hot  sand. 


REMINISCENCES  165 

However,  my  mother  enjoys  it  and  declares  this  burning  sun 
does  her  good.  I  can't  say  she  looks  well,  and  I  find  her  a  good 
deal  aged.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  power  she  is  in  the  land. 
Henry,  who  knows  the  East,  is  astonished.  At  first  when  we 
stopped  to  coal  or  to  try  and  buy  food,  we  found  the  villages  de- 
serted. Only  a  few  tiny  children  or  very  old  women  were  to  be 
seen,  who  said  they  had  nothing,  no  sheep,  no  chickens,  no  mill', 
no  bread.  Our  Mohammed  grasped  the  situation.  A  Govern- 
ment steamer  meant  no  piastres  and  courbash  into  the  bargain, 
so  he  tumbled  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  swam  ashore,  and  cut 
across  the  fields,  where  the  river  made  a  great  bend  to  the 
village  where  we  were  to  anchor  for  the  night.  There  he 
proclaimed  aloud  that  the  daughter  of  the  Sitt-el-Kebir  (the 
Great  Lady)  was  on  board,  who,  like  her  mother,  loved  the 
Arabs.  The  eifect  was  magical.  No  more  difficulties  about 
food.  Milk,  fowls,  lambs,  etc.,  suddenly  appeared  at  absurdly 
low  prices,  some  were  even  brought  as  gifts  and  we  had  to 
insist  on  the  people  taking  money  for  them.  It  is  extraor- 
dinary how  fast  news  travels  here.  As  we  got  nearer  to  Luxor, 
we  found  people  waiting  at  the  landing-places  with  presents 
of  bread,  milk,  fowls,  etc.  One  man  had  been  doctored  by 
Sittee  Noor-ala-Noor,'^  to  another  she  had  given  a  lift  in  her 
boat,  and  a  man  to  whose  child  she  had  been  kind  rode  all  the 
way  from  Keneh  to  Luxor  to  announce  our  arrival.  Moham- 
medan intolerance  was  shown  by  the  Ulema  bringing  the  re- 
ligious flags  to  decorate  Mamma's  house  in  honour  of  our  visit, 
while  the  villagers  had  stuck  palm  branches  about  the  entrance, 
and  the  sakka,  or  water-carrier,  had  been  at  work  since  dawn 
sprinkling  a  path  from  the  river's  bank.  We  had  not  been  long 
in  the  house  before  the  notables  came  to  have  a  look  at  us, 
and  more  coffee  was  consumed  than  Omar's  frugal  mind 
approved  of.     In  the  afternoon   the   bedaween,  such   rough- 

^  "The  people  here  have  named  me  Sittee  Noor-i^la-Noor.  A  poor  woman 
whose  only  child,  a  young  man,  I  was  happy  enough  to  cure  when  dreadfully  ill, 
kissed  my  feet  and  asked  by  what  name  to  pray  for  me.  I  told  her  my  name 
meant  Noor  (light-lux),  but  as  that  was  one  of  the  names  of  God  I  could  not  use 
it.  'Thy  name  is  A'oor-ala-Noor,'  said  a  man  who  was  in  the  room.  That  means 
something  like  *  God  is  upon  thy  mind,  or  Light  from  the  light,'  and  Noor-ala-Noor 
it  remains"  (Letters  from  E^ypt,  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  p.  158,  London,  1902). 


1 66  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

looking  fellows  compared  to  my  handsome  Saoud  whom  you 
remember  at  Tel-el- Kebir,  came  and  did  fantasia  under  the 
balcony.  Such  shouting  and  sticking  of  spears  in  the  ground 
to  gallop  round  !  Next  morning  they  lent  us  two  horses, 
and  some  of  them  accompanied  us  to  the  tombs  of  the  Kings 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  The  ferryman  would  not 
let  us  pay  for  being  taken  across  ;  as  usual  he  had  received 
some  kindness  from  the  Sitt-el-Kebir,  and  how  could  he  take 
money  from  her  daughter  whose  coming  had  dilated  her  heart  ? 
He  looked  poor  and  ragged,  so  we  shall  leave  a  present  for  him 
with  Omar  or  with  Mamma's  beloved  Sheykh  Yussuf,  gentlest 
and  merriest  of  holy  men.  I  shan't  attempt  to  describe  the 
tombs  of  the  Kings,  it  would  take  hours  and  reams  of  paper. 
Perhaps  you'll  see  them  some  day,  only  you  must  come  much 
earher  in  the  year  or  the  heat  will  kill  you. 

In  the  evening  we  dined  with  Sehm  Effendi,  the  Madhn, 
or  magistrate  of  Luxor,  a  pleasant,  jovial  man,  with  a  dear 
old  wife  who  insisted  on  waiting  on  us  at  table,  in  spite  of 
Henry's  presence.  Our  procession  to  dinner  was  quite  Biblical. 
Mamma  on  her  donkey,  which  I  led,  while  Henry  walked  by 
her  side.  Two  boys  in  front  had  lanterns,  and  Omar  in  his 
best  clothes  walked  behind  carrying  some  sweet  dish  for  which 
he  is  famous,  followed  by  more  lantern  bearers.  As  we  went 
through  the  little  village  the  people  came  out  of  their  mud  huts 
and  called  on  Allah  to  bless  us,  the  men  throwing  down  their 
poor  cloaks  for  my  mother  to  ride  over  and  the  women  kissing 
the  hem  of  her  dress.  The  dinner  was  an  elaborate  one  of 
many  courses,  during  which  we  made  no  end  of  pretty  speeches 
to  each  other,  and  then  we  had  pipes  and  coffee,  and  the 
Madhri's  wife  actually  came  and  sat  with  us.  Henry  belonged 
to  the  Sitt-el-Kebir — that  was  enough.  Yesterday  we  went 
to  the  ruins  of  Karnac  close  by,  which  are  magnificent.  But 
I  long  to  tunnel  under  this  house.  It  is  built  on  the  top  of 
a  big  temple,  and  our  floor  is  composed  of  the  huge  slabs  of  the 
roof.  Where  there  are  cracks  one  looks  down  into  seemingly 
bottomless  darkness.  I  don't  think  part  of  it  is  quite  safe, 
indeed  three  or  four  rooms  fell  in  last  year,  but  not  where 
Mamma  lives.    That  side  looks  all  right.    Her  balcony,  looking 


REMINISCENCES  167 

over  the  river,  is  enchanting,  and  the  sunsets  are  glorious. 
To-morrow  we  go  up  to  Assouan  as  Mamma  thinks  a  change 
will  do  her  good,  and  thus  we  shall  see  Philae.  I'll  write  again 
soon.    Ever  your  loving 

Janet." 

Janet  Ross  to  Sir  Alexander  Duf  Gordon. 

Luxor,  March  ij,  1867. 

"  I  write,  my  dear  Old  Boy,  but  the  letter  will  probably 
go  down  to  Cairo  wth  us,  it  will  be  quicker  than  the  Egyptian 
post.  Well,  we  stopped  at  Esneh  for  the  night  and  then  went 
on  to  Assouan,  a  small  dirty  village  in  a  beautiful  situation. 
Mamma  is  ever  so  much  better,  I  think  having  a  good  talk 
has  done  her  good.  And  how  she  talks  !  There  is  no  one  like 
her.  At  Assouan  we  crossed  the  river  in  our  small  boat  and 
went  to  the  island  of  Elephantine,  where  there  are  a  few  remains 
of  ruins.  I  longed  to  dig.  We  slept  on  the  steamer,  of  course, 
and  next  morning  Mamma  and  Henry  hired  a  little  boat  and 
were  towed  up  the  cataracts  to  Philae.  I  preferred  to  ride 
with  some  wild-looking,  but  nice  hedaween^  friends  of  those 
at  Luxor  who  had  recommended  us  to  them.  It  was  very 
picturesque  going  through  the  Cataract  village  and  the  place 
of  tombs  of  Assouan.  But  what  words  can  describe  Philae. 
I  can't  even  attempt  to  speak  of  its  loveliness.  There  is  a 
colonnade  from  whence  one  looks  far,  far  up  the  river  towards 
Ethiopia.  Such  a  view  I  never  saw,  it  made  one  long  to  go 
on  and  on  up  the  mighty  river.  Then  the  beautiful  people, 
so  like  bronze  statues  ;  the  girls  are/w/Zy  dressed  in  a  leathern 
fringe,  and  they  walk  like  goddesses.  I  do  hope  that  some  day 
you  will  see  all  this,  only  I  fear  the  intense  heat  would  knock 
you  up.  Both  Henry  and  I  have  bad  eyes  from  the  reflection 
of  the  sun  off  the  sand,  and  the  whole  land  shimmers  and  quivers 
with  the  heat.  We  hoped  to  find  Mamma's  dahabieh  here, 
as  she  would  like  to  go  down  to  Keneh  with  us  and  then  sail 
back,  but  we  have  just  heard  that  Mr.  Baird  and  Mr.  Eaton, 
who  hired  the  boat,  will  not  be  coming  down  the  Nile  for  some 
weeks.     We  were  lamenting  over  this  when  a  Nubian  trader, 


1 68  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

who  had  heard  in  the  mysterious  way  people  do  hear  things  in 
Egypt,  that  the  Sitt-el-Kebir  wanted  a  boat,  sent  up  to  ask 
for  an  audience.  With  many  salaams  he  came  in  and  said 
he  had  taken  all  his  goods  out  of  his  and  cleaned  her  well, 
and  that  now  she  belonged  to  the  Sittee  who  had  saved  his 
nephew's  life  when  ill  of  cholera  last  year  at  Luxor.  Mamma 
refused  to  take  the  boat  unless  the  man  let  her  pay  for  it, 
saying  she  could  not  detain  him  on  his  journey  and  perhaps 
spoil  the  sale  of  his  goods  without  in  some  way  making  it  up 
to  him.  The  Nubian  answered  in  an  eloquent  speech  :  '  My 
boat  is,  I  know,  not  worthy  of  sheltering  so  great  an  Emeereh, 
but  I  hoped  she  would  have  accepted  so  small  a  thing.  By 
Allah,  I  am  sad  and  most  mortified  !  For  my  goods  I  care  not 
one  para.  The  Sittee-Noor-ala-Noor  has,  I  know,  often  out 
of  courtesy  accepted  a  donkey  to  ride  from  a  poor  man,  when 
she  could  have  had  the  MaUhii's  white  one.  But  I  am  a 
vieskeen  (poor  fellow).  My  boat  will  henceforth  bring  me 
\  nothing  but  bad  luck.'  Then  Omar  stepped  forward  and 
spoke  for  the  Nubian,  and  the  end  was  that  she  was  accepted 
and  Omar  promised  to  make  the  man  take  a  present. 

Siout,  March  21.  Our  departure  from  Luxor  was  very 
touching.  The  inhabitants  came  to  say  good-bye  and  bring  us 
presents.  One  had  a  chicken,  another  eggs,  another  butter, 
yet  another  milk,  while  one  woman  had  sat  up  all  night  to 
bake  so  as  to  give  us  fresh  bread.  Dear  Sheykh  Yussuf  gave 
me  some  beautiful  things  out  of  tombs,  and  Todoros,  a  Copt 
whose  son  Mamma  has  taught  to  read  and  write  English  and 
German,  wanted  me  to  accept  an  alabaster  jar  which  some  great 
lady  had  used  on  her  dressing-table  hundreds  of  years  ago  and 
still  had  faint  traces  of  kohl  inside.  It  was  worth  some  ten 
napoleons,  so  I  refused  with  many  thanks  unless  he  let  me  pay 
for  it.  He  went  away,  but  I  have  just  found  the  jar  hidden  in 
my  cabin.  One  poor  woman  brought  us  the  lamb  she  had 
reared  for  the  feast  of  Bairam,  and  when  we  declared  we  could 
not  possibly  take  it  she  ran  away  leaving  her  lamb  on  board. 
At  Keneh  I  bought  another  and  sent  it  back  to  Luxor  on 
Mamma's  boat. 

The  Madhn  of  Keneh  was  waiting  at  the  landing  place  and 


REMINISCENCES  169 

insisted  that  we  should  go  and  dine  with  him.  Such  an  enter- 
tainment he  gave  us — an  excellent  dinner,  which  lasted  for 
nearly  two  hours,  and  afterwards  the  two  famous  dancmg-girls 
of  Upper  Egypt,  Zeyneb  and  Lateefeh,  danced  and  sang. 
I  had  heard  Omar  speak  of  the  MaUhn  as  Oum  Azeein,  and  so 
I  addressed  him  during  dinner.  I  noticed  that  Omar,  who 
stood  behind  Mamma,  had  some  difficulty  to  avoid  laughing 
and  wondered  what  he  found  to  laugh  at,  when  he  took  an 
opportunity  of  whispering  to  me  :  '  O  Sittee,  that  is  not  his 
name.  People  call  him  so  because,  as  thou  canst  see,  he  is  so 
very  ugly  and  has  but  one  eye.'  {Oum  Jzeein  means  '  Mother 
of  Beauty.')  I  was  much  put  out  and  extremely  sorry  for  my 
mistake,  but  the  Madhn,  with  true  Arab  poHteness,  appeared 
to  have  noticed  nothing.  We  returned  to  the  steamer  in  great 
state,  and  next  morning  I  said  good-bye  to  Mamma  and  we 
steamed  away  down  the  Nile.  .  .  . 

Your  ever  loving 

Janet." 

We  had  given  up  our  house  at  Alexandria,  and  during  our 
absence  up  the  Nile  the  furniture,  except  v/hat  I  had  set 
aside  to  be  sent  to  London,  was  sold  by  auction.  As  my  husband 
still  had  business  to  transact  he  suggested  that  I  should  go 
to  Florence  and  wait  for  him  there.  It  would  be  warmer 
than  England  and  I  should  be  among  old  friends,  as  Lady 
Elliot  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Edmund  Antrobus  and  had 
known  me  since  my  childhood.  So  in  April  I  sailed  by  an 
Italian  steamer — and  dirty  she  was — to  Brindisi. 


CHAPTER   XI 

FLORENCE  was  a  delightful  city  in  1867  when  she 
was  the  capital  of  Italy,  but  after  Upper  Egypt 
I  felt  the  cold  and  went  about  in  a  fur  jacket  in 
May,  at  which  every  one  stared.  At  the  English 
Embassy  I  was  introduced  to  many  very  agreeable  people  ; 
Rustem  Bey,  the  Turkish  ambassador,  who  afterwards  became 
Pasha  and  Governor  of  the  Lebanon  ;  M.  Solwyns,  the  Belgian 
ambassador,  whose  witty  sayings  were  enhanced  by  being 
spoken  in  a  remarkably  sweet,  low  voice  ;  Ubaldino  Peruzzi, 
the  famous  Syndic  of  Florence,  who  w^as  always  quoting  the  old 
proverb  Gente  allegra,  Iddio  Fajuta,  which  unfortunately  did 
not  prove  true  in  his  case,  and  his  clever  and  kind  wife.  With 
his  dear  old  uncle  Simone  Peruzzi  I  made  great  friends.  In 
the  Grand  Ducal  days  he  had  been  Tuscan  minister  at  Paris, 
where  his  wife  knew  Chopin  intimately,  and  played  his  music 
as  I  have  never  heard  it  played  since.  He  was  busy  writing 
an  interesting  book  on  Florentine  commerce  and  bankers 
from  1 200-1 345,  and  often  with  a  sigh  would  tell  how  his 
family  had  been  ruined  by  Edward  III  of  England,  who  re- 
pudiated his  debts  in  1339.  Bonifazio  di  Tommaso  Peruzzi 
then  journeyed  in  all  haste  to  London,  where  he  died  the 
following  year,  worn  out  by  fruitless  endeavours  to  induce 
the  King  to  repay  some  of  the  1,355,000  golden  florins  he  owed 
the  great  banking  house  of  Bardi  and  Peruzzi.  Handsome 
old  Marchese  Luigi  Strozzi  often  mounted  me  on  one  of  the 
Arab  horses  bred  on  his  large  estates  at  Mantua  ;  he  rode  and 
drove  well,  and  his  four-in-hand  of  grey  or  bay  Arabs  was  a 
feature  in  the  Cascine.  The  Marquis  had  been  passionately 
in  love  with  Princess  Mathilde  Buonaparte  (indeed  I  believe 

170 


REMINISCENCES  171 

he  was  engaged  to  her  before  Prince  Demidoff  with  his  millions 
came  upon  the  scene),  and  he  still  adored  her  memory.  One 
day  he  showed  me  her  bust  on  a  pedestal  at  the  foot  of  his 
bed,  saying  no  woman  was  ever  so  clever  or  so  handsome. 
Princess  Mathilde  would  have  been  a  happier  woman  had  she 
married  charming,  courtly  Marchese  Strozzi. 

A  raking  young  Irish  hunter,  a  very  useless  horse  for  Florence, 
had  been  sent  from  London  to  my  cousin  Sir  Henry  Elliot, 
which  I  volunteered  to  break  in  for  him.  Riding  one  day  in 
the  Cascine  with  him,  "  Paddy  "  being  very  fresh,  and  bucking 
as  we  cantered  along,  a  victoria  with  two  gentlemen  in  it 
followed  us  persistently.  We  pulled  up  and  I  recognized 
King  Victor  Emanuel.  He  beckoned  to  Henry  and  asked  who 
I  was.  Knowing  that  I  wished  to  see  the  royal  stud  at  Pisa, 
renowned  for  the  number  of  fine  Arab  horses,  presents  from 
the  Sultan  and  the  Viceroy  of  Egypt,  my  cousin  asked  whether 
I  might  be  allowed  to  see  it.  A  permission  came  next  morning 
and  I  went  to  Pisa  with  one  of  the  King's  gentlemen  ushers, 
Simone  Peruzzi,  nephew  of  my  old  friend,  whom  I  had  met 
in  Venice.  The  horses  were  splendid,  and  to  my  astonishment 
the  head  groom  told  me  that  these  small  Arabs  bred  in  the 
desert  were  the  King's  favourite  mounts  when  he  went  hunting 
in  the  Alps,  and  that  they  climbed  like  chamois.  His  Majesty 
must  have  weighed  something  like  seventeen  stone,  and  I 
pitied  the  poor  wee  things.  The  breed  of  ponies  all  round 
Pisa  show  signs  of  Arab  blood,  and  are  famed  for  their  endur- 
ance. It  was  so  odd  to  see  camels,  laden  with  pine  cones  and 
firewood,  stalking  along  on  the  grass  under  trees.  The  first 
were  brought  to  Tuscany  more  than  300  years  ago  I  was  told, 
and  have  not  degenerated,  only  their  coats  struck  me  as  thicker 
and  rougher  than  those  I  had  been  accustomed  to  in  Egypt. 

My  husband  joined  me  in  June  and  we  went  to  England. 
There  I  got  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bentley  asking  me  to  translate 
M.  Jules  Van  Praet's  Essais  Historiques  et  Politiques  des  Der- 
nieres  Siecles,  which  my  grandmother  was  not  well  enough  to 
undertake.  She  was  to  edit  it  and  her  name  to  appear  on  the 
title  page.  Her  death  in  August  prevented  this,  and  our  old 
friend  Sir  Edmund  Head  took  her  place.     As  Mr.  Bentley 


172  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

wanted  the  book  by  the  end  of  September  my  father  helped  me 
with  the  translation,  but  Essays  of  the  Political  History  oj  the 
XV,  XVI,  and  XVII  Centuries  only  came  out  in  1868. 

As  usual  I  spent  some  time  at  Aldermaston,  and  Leighton 
came  down  for  a  few  days  and  asked  me  to  sit  for  a  head. 
"  All  your  old  friends  have  had  a  try  at  you,  now  it  is  my  turn," 
he  said.  How  pleasant  were  the  mornings  I  spent  in  his  beauti- 
ful studio  at  Kensington.  Dear  "  Signor,"  who  lived  next  door, 
used  to  come  in,  when  we  talked  of  the  happy  days  at  Esher 
and  lamented  that  we  were  all  growing  old. 

My  husband  was  not  well,  so  we  went  to  Homburg  which 
always  did  him  good,  and  there  I  heard  of  the  death  of  my  grand- 
mother, Mrs.  Austin.  I  had  seen  her  in  July  when  she  was 
expecting  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  join  her  somewhere  at 
the  seaside.  He  went  over  from  Paris  directly  he  heard  of  her 
fatal  seizure,  but  arrived  too  late  to  see  her  alive.  My  father 
sent  me  the  following  notes  from  M.  Guizot  and  Mrs.  Grote, 
both  of  them  very  characteristic  of  the  writers  : — 


M.  Guizot  to  Sir  Alexander  Duf  Gordon. 

Val  Richer  (par  Lisieux,  Calvados),  12  Aout,  1867. 

"  Men  cher  Sir  Alexander, 

La  mort  de  Madame  Austin  est,  pour  moi,  un  veritable 
chagrin,  car  elle  etait,  pour  moi,  une  veritable  et  intime  amie. 
Je  I'ai  connue  dans  les  temps  les  plus  prosperes  et  dans  les  plus 
tristes  de  ma  vie,  au  sein  de  mon  bonheur  et  de  mes  douleurs 
domestiques,  de  mes  succes  et  de  mes  revers  politiques.  Je 
I'ai  trouvee  toujours  la  meme,  la  meme  elevation  d'esprit, 
la  meme  sympathie  de  coeur,  la  meme  energie  de  devouement. 
C'etait  vraiment  une  personne  rare.  Je  n'esperais  plus  la  re- 
voir.  Je  le  lui  disais  dans  la  derniere  lettre  que  je  lui  ai  ecrite. 
Elle  me  disait  presque  adieu  dans  la  reponse  du  H  Juillet 
dernier.    Mais  qu'il  y  a  loin  de  I'adieu  prevu  a  I'adieu  reel. 

A-t-elle  garde,  jusqu'au  moment  de  sa  mort,  toute  la  force 
de  son  ame  et  la  clarte  de  sa  pensee  ? 


JANET   ROSS. 
By  Lord  Leighton. 


REMINISCENCES  173 

Y  a-t-il  d'elle  une  bonne  gravure,  une  bonne  photographie  ? 
grande  ou  petite.  Je  desirerais  avoir  d'elle  un  souvenir. 
N'oubliez  pas  mon  desir,  je  vous  prie.  Et  soyez,  aupres  de  sa 
fille,  de  ses  petits  enfants,  de  ses  amis,  I'interprete  de  ma 
sincere  sympathie.  Mes  filles  me  demandent  de  vous  temoigner 
la  leur. 

Je  trouve  quelque  douceur  a  penser  qu'elle  est  partie  avant 
sa  fille  dont  la  sante  la  preoccupait  si  vivement.  Je  fais  des 
voeux  pour  que  Lady  Gordon  tarda  longtemps  a  aller  rejoindre 
sa  mere. 

Tout  a  vous,  mon  cher  Sir  Alexander, 

GuizoT." 

Mrs.  Grote  to  Sir  Alexander  Du-ff  Gordon. 

The  Ridgeway,  Guildford,  August  19,  1867. 

"  Dear  Alex.  Gordon, 

I  am  much  obhged  to  you  for  your  letter.  St.  Hilaire, 
whom  I  saw  chez.  Lady  William  Russell  on  Thursday,  gave  me 
the  few  facts  he  knew.  I  was  of  course  seriously  shocked, 
and  felt  I  had  lost  the  oldest  intimate  I  had  in  the  world, 
when  I  learned  the  news  of  poor  Cummer's  (Mrs  Grote  always 
called  Mrs.  Austin  thus)  departure.  The  notices  of  her  in  the 
Times  and  AthencBum  are  very  pleasing  tributes. 

But  twenty  pages  would  not  be  too  much  to  depict  the 
character  and  capacities  of  that  rare  woman.  Her  faults  were 
those  of  her  position — or  rather  her  no  position  and  her  social 
needs.  Few  comprehended  better  than  myself  her  singularly 
compound  nature — or  could  more  clearly  define  her  claim  to 
the  admiration  of  her  species.  In  fact,  a  woman  is  not  often 
comprehended,  having  more  or  less,  when  highly  gifted,  the 
attributes  of  the  Sphinx.  I  continue  extremely  feeble  and  out 
of  health,  and  depressed  in  spirits.  But,  as  one  is  bound  to  do, 
not  '  giving  it  up  '  quite.  Perhaps  I  may  get  '  vamped  up  ' 
enough  to  join  the  Historian  in  a  bit  of  travel,  after  he  has 
done  his  '  Exposition  '  in  Paris.     Yours  aflFectionately, 

H.  Grote." 


174  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Who  wrote  the  notice  of  my  grandmother  in  the  Athenaum 
I  know  not,  but  it  gives  an  excellent  description  of  her.     I 
give  a  few  extracts.  ..."  In  her  youth  and  till  a  late  period 
of  her  life  she  was  a  beautiful,  stately  woman.    She  conversed 
well,  rather  than  brilliantly.     It  is  no  wonder  then  that  from 
her  youth  upwards  she  was  admired,  and  that  on  her  marriage 
with  Mr.  John  Austin,  a  barrister,  who  afterwards  became 
eminent  by  his  labours  in  the  question  of  jurisprudence,  her 
house  was  resorted  to  by  some  of  the  deepest  thinkers  and  most 
refined  men  of  letters  of  the  time.    Hers  was  a  salon^  after  its 
kind,  as  peculiar  as  that  of  Madame  de  Stael.  .  .  .  Shortly 
after  her  marriage  she  began  to  be  known  as  a  translator  of  the 
first  class.     Hers,  indeed,  were  not  so  much  translations  as 
reproductions  in  another  language  of  her  German  and  French 
originals.      Few  have  ever  written  English  more  nervously, 
correctly  and  elegantly  ;    few  have  ever  taken  such   conscien- 
tious pains  exactly  to  represent  every  idiom,  every  turn  of 
phrase  ;   in  short,  everything  included  in  the  word  style.    Her 
versions  of  the  travels  of  the  ridiculous  Prince  Puckler-Muskau, 
— of  Dr.  Carove's  delicious  little  fairy  tale.  The  Story  without  an 
End, — her  compilation,  Goethe  atid  his  Contemporaries, — and  her 
translation  of  Ranke's  History  of  the  Popes,  succeeded  each  other 
at  brief  intervals.  .  .  .  That  she  was  a  shrewd  critic  many 
volumes  of  this  Journal  could  prove,  not  to  speak  of  more 
extended  contributions  to  the  Reviews.    During  her  residence 
abroad,  too,  and  after  her  return  to  England,  Mrs.  Austin 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Athenceum,  and  her  travelling 
letters  and  her  obituary  notices  are  among  the  best  things  of 
the  kind  which  have  adorned  our  periodical  literature.    After 
Mr.  Austin's  death  she  bent  herself  to  the  difficult  and  grave 
task  of  arranging  for  publication  the  Lectures  on  the  Principles 
of  Jurisprudence,  which  his  great  delicacy  of  health  had  pre- 
vented him  from  putting  in  order.    In  brief,  she  was  a  complete, 
select,  and  distinguished  literary  artist,  and  we  can  name  no 
woman  who  can  precisely  fill  the  void  left  by  her  departure."^ 
After  my  grandfather's  death  Mrs.  Austin  had  consulted 
several  of  his  old  friends — Lord  Brougham,  Sir  William  Erie, 

'  Athinaum,  17th  August,  1867. 


REMINISCENCES  175 

and  others  whose  names  I  do  not  remember — as  to  what  should 
be  done  with  regard  to  his  Lectures  on  Jurisprudence.  One 
volume  of  them  had  been  published  in  his  lifetime  under  the 
title  The  Province  of  Jurisprudejice  Determined,  but  had  long 
been  out  of  print.  These  she  was  advised  to  republish.  With 
regard  to  the  remaining  Lectures  which  were  still  in  manuscript, 
she  was  advised  that  "  all  the  lectures  should  be  published  with 
only  such  revisions  as  might  remove  needless  repetitions," 
and  that  under  the  circumstances  the  "  safest  editor  "  would 
be  Mrs.  Austin  herself.  With  marvellous  energy  she  began 
and  laboured  hard  for  six  years,  receiving  considerable  assistance 
from  several  of  Mr.  Austin's  old  friends,  amongst  others  from 
Mr.  Booth.  But  her  constant  advisers  all  through  were  Mr., 
afterwards  Sir  Richard,  Quain  and  one  of  Her  Majesty's 
Judges,  and  Mr.,  afterwards  Sir  William,  Markby  and  Judge 
of  High  Court,  Calcutta,  who  became  near  and  dear  to  us 
when  he  married  my  beloved  cousin  Lucy  Taylor,  who  as  a 
girl  was  often  with  Mrs.  Austin.  The  work  was  a  difficult  one 
for  a  woman,  already  old  and  suffering  from  disease  of  the 
heart,  to  undertake,  and  only  what  St.  Hilaire  aptly  termed 
her  intelligence  virile  enabled  her  to  complete  so  noble  a  monu- 
ment to  her  husband's  memory. 

In  September  I  went  to  stay  at  Aviemore  with  my  friends 
Tom  Bruce,  most  delightful  and  witty  of  men,  and  his  kind 
wife.  One  night  we  were  called  out  of  bed  to  see  an  Aurora 
Borealis — most  wonderful  it  was,  but  all  our  admiration  for  the 
marvellous  shooting  colours  could  not  stop  the  shouts  of  laughter 
at  the  absurd  figures  we  presented.  Tom  Bruce  looked  more 
gigantic  than  ever  in  a  great  coat  and  a  blanket  over  it.  PhilHps, 
who  was  there  also,  appeared  artistically  draped  in  a  plaid, 
Mrs.  Bruce  and  I  looked  like  badly  tied  up  bundles.  We  went 
long  expeditions,  the  men  walking  while  we  women  rode. 
Going  through  a  wood  Phillips  suddenly  stopped  my  pony 
and  silently  pointed  ahead  ;  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  my 
life  I  saw  a  stag.  He  looked  at  us  for  a  second,  then  tossed  his 
antlers  and  bounded  away.  Phillips  was  so  well,  looked  so 
handsome,  and  was  so  full  of  projected  pictures  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  see  him. 


176  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

The  cold  and  damp  of  England  made  me  ill.  I  nearly 
died  of  bronchitis,  so  we  determined  to  go  to  Florence  for  the 
winter.  Hardly  were  we  settled  in  an  apartment  on  the 
Lung'  Arno  Acciaiuoli  when  my  husband  got  letters  from  Egypt 
begging  him  to  go  there  and  superintend  the  winding  up, 
which  was  very  intricate,  of  the  Trading  Co.  He  could 
not  refuse  and  went  to  Alexandria  in  November,  promising 
faithfully  to  be  back  before  April.  The  financial  condition  of 
Italy  was  not  brilliant  then.  Victor  Emanuel  had  given  up 
part  of  his  civil  list.  Church  lands  were  being  sold,  the  army 
had  been  reduced,  and  specie  had  disappeared.  There  was  even 
a  dearth  of  copper,  dirty  little  scraps  of  paper  did  duty  for 
fifty  centimes.  Foreigners  were  the  only  gainers,  as  one  some- 
times got  twenty-nine  fire  for  ^i.  I  wrote  to  Rawdon  Brown 
to  tell  him  my  new  address,  and  that  I  had  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Signer  Giovanni  Morelli,  the  great  art  critic,  and  he 
answered  : — 

Rawdon  Brown  to  Janet  Ross. 

Casa  della  Vida,  Venezia,  22  November,  1867. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Rest  assured  that  had  your  kind  letter  of  31  October 
contained  any  commission  I  should  have  answered  it  by  return 
of  post — even  although  when  my  friends  announce  intentions 
of  going  to  any  place,  I  somehow  or  other  rarely  find  that  my 
missives  reach  their  hypothetical  abodes.  Moreover,  what 
care  you  and  I  for  the  crown  of  Greece  ?  Which  has  been  the 
topic  here  of  late.  I  did  not  even  see  their  majesties  ;  and  the 
only  persons  with  whom  I  have  conversed  of  late  are  Mr.  Alfred 
Montgomery  and  his  daughter  who  were  sent  to  me  by  Lord 
Somers  ;  so  I  took  them  to  the  Academy  and  amused  myself 
more  than  usual,  examining  narrowly  the  picture  representing 
the  supper  in  the  House  of  Levi.  On  Saturday,  the  18  July, 
1573,  Paul  Veronese  was  pulled  up,  here,  before  the  Holy 
Romish  Inquisition  about  it.  Do  you  remember  a  Dog — 
in  the  foreground  ?  the  Prior  of  Sts.  John  and  Paul  wished 
it  to  be  changed  for — the  Magdalen. 


REMINISCENCES  177 

'  Ch'el  dovesse  far  far  la  Maddalena  in  luogo  de  un  Can.' 
The  painter  replied  that  he  would  do  anything  to  oblige  the 
Prior.  '  Ma  che  non  sentive  che  tal  figura  della  Maddalena 
podesse  zazer,  che  la  stesse  bene  per  molte  ragioni.' 

The  inquisitors  then  ask  him  if  he  thinks  it  fitting  to  paint 
at  the  Lord's  Supper — buffoons — drunken  Germans — Dwarfs 
— and  other  scurrilous  things.  In  his  defence  he  says  that 
'  Michael  Agnolo  in  Roma  drento  la  capella  Pontifical  vi  e 
depento  il  nostro  Signore  Jesu  Christo,  la  sua  madre  et  S. 
Juanne,  S.  Piero,  et  la  Corte  Celeste,  le  quale  tutte  sono  fatte 
nude  dalla  Vergine  Maria  in  poi  con  altri  diversi  con  poca 
reverentia.'  ^ 

The  whole  story  was  discovered  in  the  archives  here  amongst 
the  papers  of  the  Holy  OfHce  by  Baschet  last  May  :  he  trans- 
lated it  into  French  and  it  has  been  going  the  round  of  the 
papers  in  France,  England  and  Italy,  but  the  Italians  re- 
translated from  Baschet,  whereas  I  give  you  a  few  of  the  original 
Venetian  words  which  will  perhaps  amuse  Cav.  Morelli,  to 
whom  pray  remember  me  kindly.  I  can  give  him  no  news 
of  the  Princess,  for  now  that  the  stoves  are  alight  I  darken 
no  one's  doors  ;  but  am  not  the  less  touched  by  your  cordial 
invite  to  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  Toni  bows  to  the  ground  and 
sends  his  very  humble  and  grateful  duty.  One  of  my  nieces 
is  going  to  be  married,  and  I  have  invited  the  happy  pair 
to  pass  a  part  of  their  honeymoon  under  this  roof.  All  that 
you  say  of  your  book  is  most  satisfactory.  Your  editor  knows 
his  public,  and  it's  sure  to  be  a  success,  so  '  coraggio.'  I  know 
not  what  comfort  to  give  about  the  loss  of  the  £'jo,ooo,  but  in 
truth  I  think  that  a  very  much  smaller  sum,  without  anxiety, 
is  preferable  to  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  liable  to  the  hot-water 
tax.  Are  you  not  of  my  opinion  ?  God  bless  you.  Always 
affectionately  yours, 

Rawdon  Brown." 

^  *'That  he  was  to  paint  the  Magdalen  instead  of  a  dog."  "That  he  did  not 
think  that  such  figure  of  the  Magdalen  would  fit  in,  or  look,  well  for  many 
reasons."  "That  Michelangelo  had  painted  in  the  Pontifical  chapel  in  Rome  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  his  mother,  and  St.  John,  St.  Peter,  and  tlie  Celestial  Court, 
all  naked,  from  the  Virgin  Mary  downwards,  in  diverse  positions  with  small 
reverence." 
N 


178  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

In  the  early  spring  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  asked  me  to  come  and 
stay  with  him  for  a  week.  I  accepted  with  great  delight,  and 
remembering  that  he  had  once  told  me  something  about 
having  been  obliged  to  hire  a  big  bath  for  a  lady  guest,  added 
an  unfortunate  postscript  to  my  letter  to  ask  whether  I  should 
bring  my  travelling  bath  instead  of  a  box.  This  nearly  upset 
our  friendship.  In  reply  I  received  a  cold  and  sarcastic  note 
to  say  that  as  evidently  I  did  not  consider  his  house  was  properly 
furnished  I  had  better  not  come.  Humbly  I  asked  pardon  ;ipd 
announced  that  I  intended  leaving  Florence  the  day  after  he 
received  my  note,  unless  he  hardened  his  heart,  and  telegraphed 
to  say  I  was  not  to  come.  The  dear  old  man  met  me  at  the 
station,  kind,  but  rather  more  ceremonious  in  manner  than 
usual,  and  when  he  ushered  me  into  my  bedroom  I  found  it 
filled  with  baths  of  every  shape  and  size.  A  huge  one,  such  as 
is  to  be  hired  in  all  Italian  towns,  with  a  little  stove  attached 
for  heating  the  water,  an  oblong  and  a  round  flat  one,  two 
sitzbaths  and  three  footbaths.  I  only  had  time  to  say  "  O  ! 
Mr.  Brown,"  when  he  turned  to  his  nice  maid  and  in  a  louder 
voice  than  was  usual  to  him  said  :  "  Giustina,  these  baths 
must  all  be  filled  with  hot  water  for  the  lady  every  morning." 
Then  we  went  to  supper,  and  it  was  not  until  I  declared  I 
should  not  go  to  bed  and  should  leave  by  the  first  train  next 
morning  that  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  relented.  But  the  baths 
remained  piled  together  in  my  room  for  two  days  as,  I  suppose, 
a  sort  of  punishment  for  my  impudence  in  daring  to  imagine 
that  he  did  not  possess  them.  When  the  "  bath  episode," 
as  we  called  it,  was  over,  he  was  the  most  delightful  of  hosts, 
and  I  learnt  more  about  old  Venice  during  my  week's  visit 
than  a  whole  library  of  books  would  have  taught  me. 

My  husband  found  he  could  not  leave  Egypt,  so  in  June  I 
returned  by  a  delightful  route  to  England.  The  Duke  of 
Sutherland  gave  me  a  letter  to  Mr.  Fell,  whose  railway  over 
Mont  Cenis  was  finished,  but  not  yet  open  to  trafiic.  From 
Susa,  a  pretty  village  with  a  fine  old  Roman  arch,  I  tele- 
graphed to  Mr.  Fell  at  Modane,  and  next  morning  was  told 
a  train  was  waiting  for  me.  The  train  consisted  of  an  engine 
and  one  small  carriage  and  Mr.  Fell's  son  piloted   me    over. 


REMINISCENCES  179 

Climbing  up  the  high  mountain,  now  and  then  hanging  over 
deep  precipices,  in  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  roaring  torrent 
above  which  the  train  ran  on  iron  stanchions  rammed  into  the 
sheer  rocks,  was  most  exciting,  but  not  suited  to  nervous  people. 
After  a  little  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  stand  on  the  engine, 
and  young  Mr.  Fell  let  her  go  at  what  seemed  to  me  headlong 
speed,  in  order  to  show  how  quickly  and  smoothly  he  could 
pull  up  in  a  few  yards.  It  was  like  riding  a  well-trained  racer. 
Often  when  going  under  the  mountain  in  the  stuffy  tunnel  I 
have  regretted  that  the  beautiful  railway  over  it  no  longer  exists. 
With  my  father,  whose  holiday  happened  to  fall  in  July  and 
August,  I  went  for  a  tour  in  Normandy.  We  were  pleased  with 
St.  Malo  and  with  Avranches,  and  wildly  dehghted  with 
Mont  St.  Michel,  where,  in  spite  of  the  bad  inn,  we  stayed 
three  days.  The  chapel  at  the  top  of  the  steep  hill,  with  one 
column  in  the  middle  like  the  stem  of  a  palm  tree,  the  roof 
being  formed  of  its  branches,  was  worth  climbing  up  those 
innumerable  steps.  I  have  been  told  the  place  has  been  re- 
stored, and  only  hope  it  is  not  spoiled.  We  spent  a  week  with 
M.  Guizot  at  Val  Richer,  whose  life  was  verv'  patriarchal 
with  his  daughter  Madame  de  Witt,  her  husband  and  children. 
It  was  my  first  visit  to  a  French  country  house, and  it  seemed  odd 
to  have  breakfast  all  alone  in  one's  bedroom  and  to  see  nothing 
of  one's  hosts  until  the  twelve  o'clock  dejeuner.  Round  the 
large  drawing-room  were  hung  full-length  portraits  of  Louis 
Philippe  and  his  wife,  Marie  Amelie  ;  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Montpensier  ;  of  the  Queen  of  Spain  and  her  husband. 
I  eyed  them  with  some  curiosity,  thinking  of  the  Spanish 
marriages  which  did  not  redound  to  the  credit  of  ]VI.  Guizot, 
and  wondered  he  had  not  relegated  the  pictures  to  a  garret. 
On  Sunday  we  had  service  in  M.  Guizot's  study,  he  reading  the 
prayers  and  afterwards  a  sermon,  if  I  remember  rightly,  by 
Bossuet.  I  need  hardly  remind  my  readers  that  the  Guizot 
family  were  Huguenots.  The  old  statesman  read  remarkably 
well,  every  word  falHng  clear-cut  from  his  lips.  It  was  a 
splendid  lesson  in  French.  He  was  extremely  kind  to  me, 
yet  somehow  I  did  not  feel  so  much  at  ease  with  him  as  with 
Victor  Cousin  or  dear  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire. 


i8o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

In  November  I  returned  to  Florence,  where  I  received  a 
letter  from  Tom  Taylor  telling  me  of  the  death  of  our  mutual 
friend  Phillips.  Tom,  kind  and  good  as  usual,  had  undertaken 
the  management  of  the  sale  of  his  pictures,  and  I  vi^rote  at  once 
to  beg  him  to  buy  two  or  three  of  the  Egyptian  water-colours 
for  me.  I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  a  head  PhilHps  did  in  our 
house  at  Alexandria  of  the  daughter  of  our  washerwoman,  a 
pretty  Abyssinian  girl,  and  also  a  small  sketch  of  Ingi  Khanoum, 
the  widow  of  Said  Pasha,  he  did  from  my  description  of  her. 
I  heard  that  Holman  Hunt  was  in  Florence,  so  wrote  to  tell 
him  of  the  death  of  poor  Phillips.    He  answered  : — 


Holman  Hunt  to  Janet  Ross. 

43  Borgo  Ognissanti,  Florence,  December  20,  1868. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  left  your  first  note  which  I  received  yesterday,  just 
as  I  was  starting  for  Fiesole,  to  be  acknowledged  by  word  of 
mouth.  I  was  very  sorry  to  learn  by  your  second  that  you 
were  unwell.  On  Sunday  next  it  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to 
me  to  dine  with  you,  and  I  shall  be  quite  angry  if  you  are  not 
thoroughly  restored. 

It  is  a  real  affliction  to  me  that  good  Phillips  can  never  be 
seen  again  in  this  world.  In  the  dreams  of  the  repose  of  my 
old  age,  which  I  suppose  we  all  indulge  in,  I  had  figured  him 
as  amongst  the  small  circle  of  friends  with  whom  I  should  be 
able  to  talk  of  the  past  very  often — and  sometimes  even  of  the 
future.  This  was  a  selfish  pleasure,  but  I  am  sure  I  had  as  much 
gratification  in  the  thought  of  seeing  him  glorying  in  the 
beauty  and  ability  of  his  own  children,  and  now  instead  I 
picture  to  myself  these  in  their  full  growth  with  more  or  less 
of  a  past  shadow  for  their  father.  I  have  lost  so  many  who 
have  been  dear  to  me  that  I  should  almost  cease  to  think  of 
myself  as  belonging  to  this  world  were  it  not  for  my  jolly  little 
boy.  I  am  just  writing  to  poor  Mrs.  Phillips,  but  what  ran  I 
say  ?     I  of  course  beheve  in  eternity  and  believe  we  shall  all 


REMINISCENCES 


I8l 


meet  again,  and  even  that  somehow  all  that  we  suffer  here  is 
for  the  best,  but  all  people  will  tell  her  that  to  no  sort  cf 
purpose.  .  .  . 

Yours  sincerely  ever, 

W.  HoLMAN  Hunt." 

I  saw  Holman  Hunt  often  during  the  winter  and  spring. 
He  was  painting  at  Fiesole,  from  a  study  done  in  Egypt,  an 
Arab  girl  with  big  Egyptian  pigeons,  some  of  which  he  had 
brought  with  him.  The  sight  of  them  quite  gave  me  heimweh 
for  the  land  of  sun. 

Henry  came  in  June  and  we  went  at  once  to  London.  My 
father  had  not  been  at  all  well  and  the  anxiety  about  my 
mother  told  upon  him.  Before  leaving  Cairo  Henry  had  seen 
her  and  did  not  think  she  was  in  any  imminent  danger.  The 
telegram  announcing  her  death  on  July  14,  1869,  came  just  as 
my  father  and  I  were  going  to  start  for  Egypt,  a  journey 
I  dreaded  for  him.  A  few  days  after  the  telegram  came  my 
mother's  last  letters  to  my  father — entreating  him  not  to  come, 
to  me — to  do  all  I  could  to  prevent  him.  Though  she  had  been 
ill  and  away  from  home  so  long,  we  had  always  hoped  against 
hope,  and  her  death  left  a  void  nothing  could  fill.  Her  friends 
mourned  deeply  that  they  would  never  again  see  those  wonder- 
ful eyes  or  hear  that  eloquent  speech.  The  best  pen-portrait 
of  her  is  by  my  dear  Poet,  who  wrote  an  Introduction  to  the 
last  and  augmented  edition  of  her  Letters  from  Egypt,  which  I 
published  in  1892. 

"...  Poetical  comparisons  run  under  hea\y  weights  in 
prose  ;  but  it  would  seem  in  truth,  from  the  reports  of  her, 
that  wherever  she  appeared  she  could  be  likened  to  a  Selene 
breaking  through  cloud  ;  and  further,  the  splendid  vessel 
was  richly  freighted.  Trained  by  a  scholar,  much  in  the  society 
of  scholarly  men,  having  an  innate  bent  to  exactitude,  and  with 
a  ready  tongue  docile  to  the  curb,  she  stepped  into  the  world 
armed  to  be  a  match  for  it.  She  cut  her  way  through  the 
accustomed  troop  of  adorers,  like  %vhat  you  will  that  is  buoyant 
and  swims  gallantly.  Her  quality  of  the  philosophical  humour 
carried  her  easily  over  the  shoals  or  the  deeps  in  the  way  of  a 


i82  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

woman  claiming  her  right  to  an  independent  judgment  upon 
the  minor  rules  of  conduct,  as  well  as  upon  matters  o£  the  mind. 
.  .  .  She  preferred  the  society  of  men,  on  the  plain  ground  that 
they  discuss  matters  of  weight,  and  are — the  pick  of  them — 
of  open  speech,  more  liberal,  more  genial,  better  comrades. 
Was  it  wonderful  to  hear  them,  knowing  her  as  they  did, 
unite  in  calling  her  coeur  d^or  F  And  women  could  say  it  of 
her,  for  the  reasons  known  to  women.  .  .  .  The  hospitable 
house  at  Esher  gave  its  welcome  not  merely  to  men  and  women 
of  distinction  ;  the  humble  undistinguished  were  made  joyous 
guests  there,  whether  commonplace  or  counting  among  the 
hopeful.  Their  hostess  knew  how  to  shelter  the  sensitively 
silent  at  table,  if  they  were  unable  to  take  encouragement 
and  join  in  the  flow.  Their  faces  at  least  responded  to  her 
bright  look  on  one  or  the  other  of  them  when  something  worthy 
of  memory  sparkled  flying.  She  had  the  laugh  that  rocks  the 
frame,  but  it  was  usually  with  a  triumphant  smile  that  she 
greeted  things  good  to  the  ear  ;  and  her  own  manner  of  telling 
was  concise,  on  the  lines  of  the  running  subject,  to  carry  it 
along,  not  to  produce  an  effect — which  is  like  the  horrid  gap 
in  the  air  after  a  blast  of  powder.  Quotation  came  when  it 
sprang  to  the  lips  and  was  native.  She  was  shrewd  and  cogent, 
invariably  calm  in  argument,  sitting  over  it,  not  making  it  a 
duel,  as  the  argumentative  are  prone  to  do  ;  and  a  strong 
point  scored  against  her  received  the  honours  due  to  a  noble 
enemy.  No  pose  as  mistress  of  a  salon  shuffling  the  guests 
marked  her  treatment  of  them  ;  she  was  their  comrade, 
one  of  the  pack.  This  can  only  be  the  case  when  a  governing 
lady  is  at  all  points  their  equal,  more  than  a  player  of  trump 
cards.  In  England,  in  her  day,  while  health  was  with  her, 
there  was  one  house  where  men  and  women  conversed.  When 
that  house  perforce  was  closed,  a  light  went  out  in  our 
country.  .  .  ." 

But  the  grief  of  her  poor  neighbours  at  Luxor  was  even 
greater.  Her  almost  passionate  pity  for  all  oppressed  creatures, 
her  kindness  and  ready  sympathy,  had  won  their  hearts. 
When  she  left,  as  they  felt,  for  the  last  time,  a  man  burst 
into  tears  and  said  :    "  Poor  I,  poor  my  children,  poor  all  the 


REMINISCENCES  183 

people."  To  quote  Meredith  again  :  "  The  service  she  did 
to  them  was  a  greater  service  done  to  her  country,  by  giving 
those  quivering  creatures  of  the  baked  land  proof  that  a 
Christian  Englishwoman  could  be  companionable,  tender, 
beneficently  motherly  with  them,  despite  the  reputed  insur- 
mountable barriers  of  alien  race  and  religion,  .  .  .  Against 
the  cruelty  of  despotic  rulers  and  the  harshness  of  society 
she  was  openly  at  war,  at  a  time  when  championship  of  the 
lowly  or  the  fallen  was  not  common.  .  .  ." 

My  father  was  so  unhappy  and  so  low-spirited  that  I  insisted 
on  his  coming  abroad  with  me,  away  from  condoling  friends 
who  did  him  no  good.  We  went  to  Courmayeur,  in  the  Val 
d'Aosta,  then  a  small  village  with  one  primitive  but  nice  inn. 
The  drive  from  Ivrea  to  Aosta  was  beautiful.  We  passed 
several  fine  old  chateaux,  and  quite  lost  our  hearts  to  one 
with  great,  square,  machicolated  towers,  round  turrets,  and  a 
massive  crenellated  gateway,  standing  in  the  valley  near  a 
swirling  mountain  stream.  Our  driver  told  us  the  name, 
Fenis,  and  that  it  was  for  sale  with  many  meadows  and  a  large 
forest  extending  up  the  mountain-side  to  the  almost  eternal 
snow.  We  counted  up  our  pennies,  made  wild  plans  to  buy 
the  Chateau  de  Fenis,  and  at  Aosta  sought  out  the  lawyer 
who  was  charged  with  the  sale.  Perhaps  fortunately  our 
castle  had  been  sold  two  hours  before  for  an  absurdly  low 
price.  Courmayeur  would  be  a  delightful  place  for  those 
who  like  high  mountains.  I  always  disliked  them,  save  in  the 
far  distance,  and  many  a  playful  quarrel  did  I  have  about  them 
with  our  kindly,  pleasant  old  friend  John  Ball,  of  Alpine  fame. 

Early  in  September  I  reached  Florence,  and  set  to  work  to 
arrange  an  apartment  we  had  taken  on  the  Lung'  Arno  Torri- 
giani,  and  unpack  the  furniture  which  had  been  stored  for  so 
long  in  London,  so  that  Henry  might  find  a  comfortable  house 
when  he  followed  me  from  Homburg.  Everyone  was  bursting 
with  excitement.  Roma  Capitate  was  the  cry  all  through  the 
city.  I  admired  the  patriotism  of  the  Florentines,  for  they 
must  have  foreseen  what  a  loss  this  would  mean  to  Florence. 

Life  was  not  so  strenuous  forty  years  ago.  The  Florentines 
were  pleasanter  in  manner  and  far  gayer  than  they  are  now. 


1 84  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Singing  was  to  be  heard  nearly  every  evening,  particularly 
on  our  side  of  the  river,  as  there  was  considerable  rivalry 
between  the  young  men  of  San  Niccolo  and  those  of  San  Fre- 
diano.  A  certain  Ulisse,  by  trade  a  whitewasher,  renowned 
for  his  fine  tenor  voice,  often  passed  at  night  down  Via  de' 
Bardi.  At  last  I  could  not  resist  opening  my  window  and  calling 
out  Bene,  Bravo,  whereupon  Ulisse  stopped  and  sang  several 
songs,  collecting  quite  a  little  crowd  in  the  generally  almost 
deserted  street.  I  asked  him  to  come  some  afternoon  after 
his  work  to  have  a  glass  of  wine  and  teach  me  some  of  his  songs. 
We  made  friends,  and  he  told  me  that  an  impresario  had  offered 
to  keep  him,  have  him  taught  music,  "  which  I  hear  can  be 
read  like  a  book,"  and  when  he  had  learned  "  proper  "  music 
would  give  him  5000  lire  a  year  for  five  years  certain.  Ma  che, 
said  he,  tossing  his  head,  amo  la  libertd.  Also  there  was  an 
innamorata,  rather  jealous,  who  did  not  approve  of  "  those 
theatre  women."  The  only  defect  Ulisse  had  was  to  get  drunk 
occasionally,  a  rare  failing  among  Florentines  in  those  days, 
then  the  guardie  took  him  up  and  put  him  in  prison.  Twice 
I  had  to  go  to  my  friend  the  Syndic  and  beg  him  off.  It  was 
a  httle  difficult  to  catch  a  tune  from  Ulisse,  ?.s  he  seldom  sang 
it  in  exactly  the  same  way.  But  I  had  a  good  ear  and  generally 
mastered  even  his  girigogoli,  as  "  fioriture "  are  called  in 
common  parlance  in  Tuscany,  after  hearing  a  song  three  or 
four  times.  The  words  I  could  always  buy  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  for  five  centimes.  The  airs  are  often  composed 
by  two  or  three  different  people,  or  a  Neapolitan  song  is  so 
altered  to  suit  the  Tuscan  taste  that  but  a  faint  reminiscence 
of  the  original  is  left.  Why  has  no  musician  collected  the 
Tuscan  popular  songs  ?  Gordigiani  and  others  have  written 
charming  imitations — but  with  few  exceptions  they  have  not 
the  lilt  of  the  real  thing.  The  author  of  a  canzone  which  had 
a  great  vogue  at  that  time  in  Florence  was  a  well-known 
cabman,  who  played  the  guitar  admirably  and  sang,  though 
with  a  harsh  voice,  with  much  expression.  He  fell  in  love 
with  one  of  three  or  four  Abyssinian  girls,  sent  it  was  said  by 
some  as  a  present  to  the  King,  by  others  to  be  educated  in 
Florencp.     La  Regina  del  Deserto  (The  Queen  of  the  Desert) 


REMINISCENCES  185 

was  the  favourite  song  for  months.     Pretty  as  it  is,  it  did 
not  touch  the  girl's  heart,  who  married  an  officer. 

An  old  man  from  whom  I  had  bought  frames  came  one  day 
with  an  air  of  mystery  to  tell  me  that  a  wonderful  picture, 
one  of  the  pictures  of  the  world,  could  be  bought  for  un  fezzo 
di  fane,  would  I  go  and  see  it  ?  I  persuaded  my  husband 
to  go  with  me,  and  after  climbing  many  stairs  in  Via  de'  Benci 
we  found  ourselves  in  the  studio  of  Signor  Tricca,  a  very  clever 
cleaner  and  restorer  of  pictures.  There  we  saw  the  School  of 
Pan,  by  Luca  Signorelli.  Henry  said  to  me  in  Arabic,  "  What 
a  fine  thing,  we  must  try  and  buy  it."  The  "  bit  of  bread  " 
was,  however,  rather  a  mouthful  for  us,  20,000  francs,  but  it 
seemed  so  little  for  such  a  picture  that  I  suspected  there  must 
be  something  wrong.  Tricca  probably  read  my  thoughts  in 
my  face  and  proceeded  to  tell  us  the  story  of  the  long-lost 
painting.  It  had  come  to  the  Corsi  family  as  part  of  the  dower 
of  a  Medici  bride,  and  hung  in  their  palace  until  a  Cardinal 
Corsi,  shocked  at  the  sight  of  so  many  naked  figures,  had 
white  shirts  daubed  over  them.  The  picture  was  then  declared 
to  be  so  ugly  that  it  was  sent  up  to  the  attics  with  other 
rubbish  and  forgotten.  Another  Cardinal  Corsi,  who  inherited 
the  palace  some  fifty  years  ago,  employed  Tricca  to  clean  several 
sacred  pictures,  and  asked  him  to  go  up  into  the  attics  and  see 
whether  there  was  anything  worth  restoring  there.  Struck 
by  the  diiference  between  the  heads  and  the  drapery  of  a  big 
picture,  he  cleaned  a  small  piece  and  at  once  understood  that 
it  was  a  Signorelli.  With  other  ten  pictures  he  took  it  to  his 
studio,  and  when  cleaned  made  a  careful  and  beautiful  drawing 
which  was  sent  to  Prince  Napoleon  with  the  idea  of  selling 
the  picture  to  the  Louvre,  as  the  cardinal,  like  his  ancestor, 
did  not  approve  of  nude  figures.  The  war  stopped  any  chance 
of  selling  pictures  and  the  drawing  was  sent  back  to  Tricca. 
As  there  were  no  buyers  in  Florence  my  old  frame-maker 
thought  of  me,  and  we  offered  15,000  francs  to  be  paid  in  gold. 
lanto  oro  non  si  e  mai  visto  (so  much  gold  was  never  seen 
before),  exclaimed  Tricca  with  gHstening  eyes,  as  my  husband 
counted  out  the  napoleons  on  his  table.  We  carried  off  the 
School  of  Pan  and  were  obliged  to  hang  it  in  the  dining-room. 


1 86  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

no  other  wall  in  the  house  was  big  enough  for  it.  Some  little 
time  after  we  bought  the  picture  Mr.  Spence,  who  was  not 
much  given  to  pay  visits,  came  to  call.  He  told  me  what  I 
already  knew,  that  my  old  friend  Sir  William  Boxall  was  ex- 
pected in  Florence,  and  that  he  had  hoped  to  persuade  him 
to  buy  a  very  fine  Signorelli  for  the  National  Gallery,  but 
unfortunately  some  Hungarian  with  big  mustachios  had  just 
bought  it.  My  husband  had  been  very  little  in  Florence 
and  was  not  known  by  sight,  and  there  was  so  strong  a  resem- 
blance between  him  and  General  Tiirr  that  occasionally 
officers  saluted  him  in  the  street.  I  was  much  amused,  showed 
Mr.  Spence  the  pictures  in  the  drawing-rooms,  but  did  not 
take  him  into  the  dining-room.  When  Boxall  arrived  we  asked 
him  to  lunch  and  put  him  opposite  the  SignorelH.  He  was 
so  much  occupied  in  talking  to  me  about  mutual  friends  that 
for  some  minutes  he  did  not  look  up.  Suddenly  he  dropped 
his  knife,  exclaiming  :  "  Eh,  why  good  gracious,  that's  the 
picture  Spence  has  been  telling  me  about."  Rather  to  my 
dismay,  my  husband  oifered  Boxall  the  School  of  Pan  for  the 
price  we  had  given,  plus  lo  per  cent  which  had  been  promised 
to  Tricca  in  case  we  ever  sold  it.  The  dear  old  man  hummed 
and  hawed,  said  it  was  rather  undressed  for  the  British  public, 
and  to  my  relief  did  not  accept  Henry's  offer. 

After  the  Franco-German  War  Tricca  brought  Dr.  Bode  to 
see  the  picture.  He  admired  it,  but  said  he  could  buy  nothing 
without  first  sending  a  photograph  to  Berlin.  Without  asking 
my  husband's  permission,  he  ordered  a  man  who  was  with  him 
to  go  and  get  porters  to  take  down  the  picture  and  carry  it  to 
a  photographer.  Henry  quietly  remarked  that  the  picture 
was  his  and  that  he  forbade  it  being  touched.  Evidently 
Dr.  Bode  was  not  accustomed  to  be  thwarted ;  he  looked 
astonished  and  angry,  but  finally,  to  my  sorrow,  bought  the 
School  of  Pan  for  the  Berlin  Gallery  for  66,000  francs,  6000  of 
which  went  as  promised  to  Tricca. 


CHAPTER    XII 

MY  husband,  who  loved  flowers,  had  always  longed 
to  have  a  garden,  so  we  took,  first  for  the  sum- 
mer months  and  afterwards  by  the  year,  a  long, 
rambling  villa  near  Signa  belonging  to  a  friend, 
Marchese  Delia  Stufa.  It  had  gradually  grown  out  of  a  loggia 
under  which  wool  was  dried  in  old  days  when  the  Arte  della 
Lana,  or  Guild  of  Wool,  owned  large  tracts  of  country  near 
by.  The  arches  had  been  filled  up,  a  first  floor  added,  and  wings 
built  out  in  various  directions.  For  years  it  had  been  unin- 
habited save  by  the  fattore,  or  agent,  who  lived  in  one  end. 
I  turned  a  washhouse  into  my  sitting-room  and  a  large  room 
next  to  it  where  the  clothes  were  hung  to  dry  into  a  drawing- 
room,  while  Henry  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself  in  laying  out 
a  garden. 

The  outlook  in  France  was  so  bad  that  we  determined  to 
remain  in  Italy.  In  May  M.  Estancelin  wrote  and  told  me 
that  the  Orleans  Princes  were  about  to  demand  permission 
from  the  Legislative  Assembly  to  return  to  France.  In  a 
French  newspaper  I  saw  a  report  that  M.  Thiers  had  not  only 
voted,  but  spoken  against  it,  and  wrote  rather  an  angry  letter 
to  St.  Hilaire,  who  answered  : — 

71/.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Rue  d'Astorg  29  bis,  11  Juillet,  1870. 
"  Ma  chere  Janet, 

Je  me  hate  de  vous  repondre  pour  vous  signaler  injus- 
tice ou  plutot  I'erreur  que  vous  commettez  a  I'egard  de  M. 
Thiers ;  il  a  vote  avec  nous,  et  il  est  au  nombre  des  31.  Le 
Journal  ofiiciel  peu.t  vous  I'attester.     II  n'avait  point  a  parler 

1S7 


1 88  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

dans  cette  occasion  ;  il  n'est  pas  un  serviteur  des  d'Orleans ; 
il  n'est  que  le  serviteur  de  son  pays.  Estancelin  etait  le  cama- 
rade  d'enfance  des  Princes  ;  et  il  a  continue  avec  eux  ses 
relations  intimes  que  n'a  jamais  cues  M.  Thiers,  et  qu'il  n'a 
jamais  voulu  avoir. 

Je  crains  done,  ma  chere  Janet,  que  vous  ne  soyez  allee  un 
peu  vite  dans  votre  jugement  si  severe.  J'en  appelle  a  votre 
equite. 

J'ai  vote  pour  les  Princes  tout  en  trouvant  qu'ils  avaient 
tort  dans  leur  demarche  ;  il  est  possible  qu'elle  ait  precipite 
les  fohes  de  notre  auguste  maitre  ;  car  c'est  lui  qui  veut  la 
guerre  et  qui  I'aura. 

Le  '  jeune  '  Estancelin  aura  aujourd'hui  votre  lettre  ;  il  a 
parfaitement  parle,  et  il  sera  heureux  de  votre  approbation 
jointe  a  tant  d'autres.     Bonne  sante.     Votre  tout  devoue 

By.  St.  Hilaire." 

Only  a  few  days  after  I  received  my  old  friend's  letter  the 
war  he  had  foretold  was  declared.  The  French  suffered  defeat 
after  defeat,  as  my  husband,  who  had  seen  Prussian  manoeuvres 
often,  predicted.  My  sympathies  were  all  for  France  and  my 
many  French  friends,  and  I  wrote  to  St.  Hilaire  telling  him  so. 
He  answered  : — 

M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Rue  d'Astorg,  29  bis,  16  Aout,  1870. 

"  Ma  chere  Janet, 

Je  vous  remercie  de  votre  sympathie,  et  je  reconnais 
la  votre  bon  cceur.  Nous  ne  sommes  pas  moins  etonnes  que 
vous  ;  et  de  plus  nous  sommes  les  victimes.  La  guerre  n'a 
ete  voulue  que  par  I'Empereur  et  ses  complices,  ministres  et 
courtisans.  Les  desastres  ont  tenue  a  son  incapacite  absolue  ; 
car  vous  voyez  que  les  soldats  se  sont  battus  comme  des  lions. 
Voila  trente-six  heures  que  notre  armee  se  bat  a  Metz  ;  et 
nous  n'y  avons  pas  une  seule  depeche.  II  est  probable  qu'elle  est 
coupee  de  sa  ligne  de  retraite  ;  et  on  dit  meme  que  I'Empereur 


REMINISCENCES  189 

est  renferme  dans  Metz,  ou  il  sera  bientot  pris.     Si  I'armee 
est  detruite,  la  defense  de  Paris  devient  presqu'impossible. 

Voila  vingt  ans  que  la  France  charge  elle  meme  la  mine 
qui  fait  aujourd'hui  explosion  ;  elle  a  tout  permis  au  pouvoir 
personnel,  et  a  recompense  toutes  ses  fautes  par  7,300,000 
voix.  II  s'est  tout  permis  et  pour  dernier  caprice  il  a  joue 
I'existence  meme  du  pays. 

Merci  encore  une  fois,  ainsi  qu'aux  Italiens  qui  partagent 
vos  sentiments. 

Votre  bien  devoue 

By.  St.  Hilaire," 

When  on  September  20,  1870,  the  Italians  entered  Rome 
people  went  mad  with  enthusiasm  ;  they  slapped  each  other 
on  the  back,  swaggered  about  with  a  martial  air,  and  men 
kissed  and  embraced  each  other  in  every  street.  One  of  the 
last  court  functions  in  Florence  was  the  arrival  of  the  Spanish 
deputation  in  December  to  offer  the  crown  of  Spain  to  the 
King's  second  son,  Amadeo,  Duke  of  Aosta.  The  procession 
from  the  station  to  the  Pitti  palace  was  a  fine  sight,  but  the 
Spaniards  w-ere  not  much  cheered.  It  was  a  bitterly  cold 
winter,  and  our  house,  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  river,  got  but 
little  sun.  I  had  several  bad  attacks  of  bronchitis  and  was 
extremely  anxious  about  my  French  friends,  particularly 
the  Due  de  Chartres,  who  I  knew  was  fighting  under  the  name 
of  Robert  le  Fort.  Estancelin  was  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  National  Guards  of  the  Lower  Seine  and  put  the  Prince 
in  command  of  the  Guides  of  the  Department.  At  the  battle 
of  Etrepagny  he  distinguished  himself,  was  attached  to  the 
Staff,  and  promoted  to  be  major.  Some  time  afterwards  he 
showed  me  the  decoration  given  by  the  French  Government 
to  Robert  le  Fort,  he  not  having  been  recognized  as  one  of 
the  Orleans  Princes.  It  was  a  relief  when  I  heard  from  my 
father  early  in  February  that  St.  Hilaire  had  written  to 
thank  him  for  placing  money  at  his  disposal  at  a  bank  in  Paris, 
and  that  he  was  safe  and  well.  A  few  days  later  I  got  a  letter 
from  Guichard,  who  had  quitted  Egypt  when  the  war  broke 
out  to  enlist  as  a  common  soldier. 


190  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

M.  Guichard  to  Janet  Ross. 

Les  Cretes,  pres  Clarens,  19  Fevrier,  1871. 

"  Ma  chere  amie,  merci  mille  fois  pour  votre  bon  souvenir, 
et  votre  aimable  lettre  qui  vient  de  m'arriver  en  Suisse  ou  je 
suis  venu  retrouver  ma  famille  depuis  le  12  de  ce  mois.  Tout 
mon  monde  est  en  bonne  sante,  apres  avoir  subi  cinq  mois 
de  cruelles  angoisses.  Quant  a  moi,  j'ai  parfaitement  passe 
mon  temps  de  siege  a  Paris,  et  je  n'ai  qu'un  mal,  mais  il  est 
bien  grand,  c'est  celui  de  voir  mon  pays  vaincu,  humilie,  et 
de  penser  qu'il  I'a  merite,  Non  jamais  sanction  plus  cruelle 
n'aura  frappe  un  peuple,  pour  son  aveuglement,  sa  sottise, 
I'abandon  stupide  de  sa  destinee  entre  les  mains  d'un  lache 
aventurier  comme  ce  Napoleon.  Mais  ne  croyez  pas  que  ce 
pauvre  peuple  fran^ais  soit  lache  lui-meme  ;  il  est  enerve,  il 
est  ignorant,  il  est  incapable  de  tenir  tete  a  la  magnifique 
organisation  militaire  prussienne,  avant  d'avoir  eu  le  temps  de 
se  reconnaitre,  mais  il  n'est  pas  fini,  il  aura  sa  revanche.  Ma 
chere  amie,  j'ai  fait  ce  que  j'ai  pu  pour  defendre  mon  cher 
Paris  ;  j'ai  d'abord  monte  ma  garde  en  simple  volontaire, 
puis  j'ai  ete  elu  chef  d'un  bataillon,  puis  quand  la  garde 
nationale  a  ete  mobilisee,  je  suis  passe  a  I'etat-major  general 
comme  chef  d'escadron,  enfin  j'ai  pris  ma  part  de  la  defense 
comme  j'ai  pu,  ayant  jusqu'au  bout  la  confiance  qu'un  corps 
d'armee  de  la  province  se  rapprocherait  assez  pour  nous 
permettre  de  faire  une  trouee  et  de  trouver  des  ravitaillements 
a  portee  ;  mais  la  triste  realite  nous  a  ete  enfin  connue  ;  toutes 
les  armees  de  province  refoulees,  et  plus  de  pain,  ^a  ete  un 
rude  moment  ;  c'est  le  seul  ou  j'ai  reellement  souffert,  non 
pas  materiellement,  mais  moralement,  je  vous  assure.  J'ai 
quitte  Paris  apres  les  elections,  je  suis  venu  aux  Cretes  rejoindre 
ma  famille  que  j'avais  envoye  avant  I'investissement,  car 
j'etais  de  ceux  qui  voulait  voir  bruler  Paris  tout  entier  plutot 
que  de  le  voir  prendre.  Demain  je  pars  reprendre  mon 
service  de  la  Compagnie  a  Ismailia.  Ecrivez  moi  encore  en 
Egypte  quelques  details  sur  vous.  Mes  amities  a  Ross,  je  suis 
toujours  votre  tout  devoue 

Jules  Guichard." 


REMINISCENCES  191 

When  M.  Thiers  was  made  Chef  du  Pouvoir  ExecutiJ  St. 
Hilaire  became  his  right  hand,  and  only  had  time  to  write 
me  a  hurried  line  occasionally.  Then  came  the  Commune, 
"  a  convulsion  o£  famine,  misery,  and  despair,"  as  Gambetta 
called  it,  the  signing  of  peace  at  Frankfort,  fighting  in  Paris, 
and  the  burning  of  a  quartier  of  Paris.  St.  Hilaire,  I  knew, 
was  safe  at  Versailles,  but  other  friends  were  in  Paris.  One 
wrote  to  me  : — 

M.  Olagnier  to  Janet  Ross. 

146  Rue  Montmartre,  Paris,  19  Juin,  1871. 

"  Madame  et  bien  chere  amie, 

J'ai  re^u  hier  votre  affectueux  lettre  du  14,  et  je  m'em- 
presse  de  vous  repondre  quelques  mots,  ne  serait-ce  que  pour 
vous  remercier  de  votre  aimable  et  constante  sollicitude  a  mon 
egard.  Je  suis  sorti  sain  et  sauf  de  I'eifroyable  crise  que  Paris 
vient  de  traverser.  J'ai  du  rester  seul  a  I'etude,  pour  tacher 
de  la  sauvegarder.  Mon  patron  etait  absent  depuis  dix  mois 
a  cause  de  sa  mauvaise  sante,  et  tous  mes  clercs  etaient  partis 
apres  le  18  Mai  pour  echapper  aux  requisitions  de  la  Commune. 
J'ai  eu  bien  des  moments  de  souci. 

Une  de  mes  grosses  preoccupations  etait  I'inquietude  ou  je 
sentais  que  ma  mere  etait  sur  mon  compte.  Heureusement 
j'ai  pu  lui  faire  passer  assez  regulierement  de  mes  nouvelles, 
et  la  rassurer  de  mon  mieux.  J'ai  pu  aussi  aller  la  voir  des 
le  4  Juin,  apres  3  mois  de  separation.  Je  ne  vous  dis  rien  de 
notre  pauvre  Paris  ;  vous  en  avez  su  par  les  feuilles  publiques 
plus  que  je  ne  pourrais  vous  ecrire.  Je  vous  dirai  seulement 
que  vous  n'etes  pas  dans  le  vrai,  quand  vous  pensez  que  ce 
sont  ses  propres  fils  qui  I'ont  traite  comme  cela.  Beaucoup 
de  Parisiens,  assurement,  beaucoup  trop,  helas  !  ont  marche 
sous  I'ignoble  drapeau  de  la  Commune,  se  sont  battus,  et  se 
sont  fait  tuer  aussi  bravement  que  betement  pour  lui.  Mais 
la  c'est  borne  leur  role.  Les  incendies  qui  ont  deshonore 
notre  Paris  sont  I'oeuvre  de  la  lie  de  toutes  les  nations  qui 
s'y  etait  donne  rendez-vous,  soldee  sans  doute  par  Bismark, 


192  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

qui  trouvait  que  la  ruine  de  la  France  n'etait  pas  assez  com- 
plete.    Pauvre  France  !     Pauvre  Paris  ! 

Viendrez-vous  en  France  bientot  ?  Je  n'ose  I'esperer  ;  nous 
sommes  un  peuple  qu'on  ne  viendra  plus  visiter  ;  nous  sommes 
tombes  trop  bas.    Mais  je  serais  si  heureux  de  vous  voir. 

Votre  bien  affectueusement  devoue 

AUGUSTE    OlAGNIER." 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time  that  St.  Hilaire  was 
sent  on  a  private  mission  by  M.  Thiers  to  the  King  o£  Italy. 
He  came  to  stay  with  us  and  arrived  at  Castagnolo  on  a  Thurs- 
day. There  were  no  tramways  then  connecting  the  outlying 
villages  with  Florence,  and  we  were  just  going  to  send  down 
to  Lastra-a-Signa  to  order  a  carriage  when  Andrea,  the  fattore, 
came  to  ask  whether  we  wanted  anything  next  morning. 
Friday  has,  since  time  immemorial,  been  the  great  market-day 
in  Florence,  when  the  fattori  of  the  country  round  meet  to 
buy  and  sell  and  discuss  the  crops.  St.  Hilaire  at  once  asked 
whether  he  might  not  go  with  him,  to  Andrea's  perturbation. 
Come,  un  tal  pezzo  grosso  con  me  nel  haroccinoP  (What,  such  a  great 
personage  in  the  gig  with  me  ?)  exclaimed  he,  getting  very  red  in 
the  face.  So  at  six  in  the  morning  the  French  envoy  started 
in  the  baroccino  and  drove  up  to  Palazzo  Pitti  about  seven, 
where  he  was  told  to  wait  at  the  door,  in  spite  of  Andrea's 
nods  and  winks.  To  the  supercilious  porter's  discomfiture, 
the  King's  private  secretary  came  rushing  down,  received 
St.  Hilaire  with  many  apologies,  and  conducted  him  upstairs 
to  the  private  apartments  of  Victor  Emmanuel.  We  were 
much  amused  when  he  came  back  and  described  the  scene, 
rather  unhappy  lest  the  porter  might  get  into  trouble.  How 
could  the  man  imagine,  he  said,  that  a  gros  bonhomme  in  a 
baroccino  was  a  fit  person  to  be  received  by  his  King. 

It  was  so  hot  in  July  that  we  fled,  Henry  to  Homburg,  I 
to  England.  My  father  was  not  well  and  curiously  low- 
spirited,  so  I  persuaded  him  to  come  with  me  to  Italy  at  the 
end  of  August  We  spent  some  happy  weeks  together  at  the 
villa,  only  clouded  by  my  dear  Old  Boy's  occasional  fits  of 


SIR   ALEXANDER    DUM-    GORDON. 


REMINISCENCES  193 

depression,  when  a  look  of  pain  came  over  his  face.  I  was 
alarmed,  but  he  assured  me  there  was  nothing  the  matter, 
and  went  back  to  London  looking  better.  A  feeling  that  all 
was  not  right  continued  to  possess  me,  and  I  was  only  prevented 
from  going  to  see  after  him  by  my  husband's  representations 
that  I  should  be  sure  to  get  bronchitis  and  be  a  worry  to  my 
father.  Alas,  my  presentiment  was  only  too  true.  After  seeing 
Sir  James  Paget,  who  advised  an  immediate  operation  for 
incipient  cancer  of  the  tongue,  my  poor  father  was  induced 
by  some  American  friend  of  my  aunt's  to  go  to  Missisquoi,  in 
Vermont,  and  drink  the  waters.  Purposely  he  wrote  to  me 
too  late  or  I  should  have  done  all  in  my  power  to  stop  him 
or  else  have  gone  with  him.  My  brother  Maurice,  however, 
did  go,  fortunately,  for  I  believe  my  poor  father  would  have 
died  had  he  been  all  alone.  When  they  reached  the  much- 
vaunted  place  the  grand  hotel  was  but  a  miserable  inn  fre- 
quented by  miners  and  navvies,  rough  fellows  and  terribly 
noisy,  but  kindly,  and  the  health-giving  water  was  a  common 
spring.  The  cold  was  so  intense  that  they  could  not  get  away 
and  my  father's  letters  wrung  my  heart.  In  May  I  received 
a  telegram  from  my  old  grandmother  asking  me  to  come  at 
once  to  London,  as  my  father  had  arrived  very  ill.  The  good- 
ness of  my  uncle  Cosmo  and  his  wife  cannot  be  described  ; 
they  sent  away  their  children  and  insisted  on  our  going  to  their 
house  in  Eccleston  Street,  where  for  five  and  a  half  months 
I  watched  by  the  bedside  of  him  I  loved  more  than  anyone 
in  the  world.  Kindness  and  sympathy  we  received  on  all  sides, 
for  my  father  was  universally  beloved.  But  at  last  I  had  to 
beg  our  friends  not  to  come  and  see  him,  so  many  could  not 
hide  their  grief  at  the  sight  of  his  thin,  sad  face,  and  at  being 
greeted  by  a  word  scrawled  with  difficulty  on  a  slate.  On 
the  27th  October,  1872,  my  father  died,  and  I  went  to  stay 
with  Tom  and  Laura  Taylor  at  Clapham  until  strong  enough 
to  return  to  Florence.  Life  was  never  the  same  again  without 
that  dear  friend  and  companion. 

The  publication  of  a  second  volume  of  my  mother's  letters 
from   Egypt   had   been   interrupted   by   my   father's   illness. 
He  left  them  in  my  hands,  and  I  determined  to  write  a  short 
o 


194  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

life  of  her  and  also  to  republish  the  letters  from  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  which  had  appeared  in  a  volume  of  Vacation 
Tourists  and  were  not  much  known.  I  sent  my  first  attempt 
to  Kinglake,  asking  for  help  and  advice.    He  replied  : — 


A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 

28  Hyde  Park  Place,  Marble  Arch,  January  7,  1874. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  read  the  life  of  your  dear  mother  as  begun  by 
you,  and  will  send  it  on  as  ordered  to  Tom  Taylor.  You  have 
inherited  your  mother's  command  of  a  pure,  simple,  classic 
diction,  and  so  far  nothing  could  be  better,  but  I  have  a  strong 
impression  that  the  memoir  should  be  written  upon  a  somewhat 
larger  scale,  and  that  in  that  way  it  might  be  made  very 
interesting.  There  was  a  classic  grandeur  about  her  which  she 
maintained  to  the  last;  when  knowing  that  death  was  approach- 
ing she  ordered  that  she  should  be  alone  and  that  her  son 
should  not  come  to  her.  Even  in  the  part  of  her  life  covered 
by  what  you  have  already  written,  there  are  circumstances 
which,  if  told  in  a  little  detail,  would  be  extremely  interesting, 
for  instance,  her  christening,  or  rather  the  circumstances 
leading  to  it,  and  the  way  in  which  she  and  your  father  engaged 
to  marry.  If  I,  and  one  or  two  others  who  knew  her  at  different 
periods,  could  have  some  nice  long  talks  with  you  on  the 
subject,  1  think  there  might  result  a  famous  memoir  written 
in  your  capital  language  and  containing  matter  sure  to  interest. 
A  meagre  memoir  seems  to  me  worse  than  useless.  If  contrary 
to  my  suggestion  you  write  the  memoir  upon  the  present  scale, 
there  might  be  one  or  two  changes  usefully  made.  There  is 
interest  in  representing  her  during  her  childhood  as  playing 
with  John  Stuart  Mill,  but  an  undue  air  of  the  Comic  is  added 
to  it  by  bringing  in  Henry  Reeve.  I  should  recommend  you 
to  get  back  your  MSS.  from  Tom  Taylor  and  lend  your  mind 
to  the  idea  of  constructing  a  memoir  upon  a  larger  scale. 


REMINISCENCES  195 

For  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  Janet,  drive  away  that  cough  you 
speak  of,  and  let  me  hear  soon  that  you  have  done  so. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

A.    W.    KiNGLAKE." 

Tom  Taylor  with  his  wife  and  children  came  to  Castagnolo 
for  the  vintage  in  September.  The  weather  was  splendid 
and  the  grapes  unusually  fine,  which  the  contadini,  in  their 
civil,  pleasant  way,  attributed  to  the  good  fortune  brought 
by  the  foreign  friends  of  the  Signora,  The  old  fattore,  or 
agent,  Settimio,  who  had  retired  from  active  service  but  still 
superintended  the  vintage,  admired  the  way  the  English 
visitors  worked,  often  begging  Tom  to  rest  a  little  and  telling 
Laura  II  sole  d'  Italia  vi  ha  baciato  bene  (the  Italian  sun  has 
kissed  you  well).  When  I  took  out  my  watch  and  said  I  thought 
it  was  time  for  lunch  under  the  poplar  trees  down  by  the  httle 
rivulet,  he  said  :  "  Scusi,  Signora,  the  Ave  Maria  has  not  rung 
yet."  Little  Lucy  Taylor  asked  what  he  meant  and  he  ex- 
plained :  "  When  the  Ave  Maria  rings  at  midday  we  know  it 
is  time  to  eat ;  at  sundown,  twenty-four  o'clock,  it  bids  us 
leave  off  work  ;  and  at  one  o'clock  (an  hour  after  sunset) 
it  rings  again  to  remind  us  to  say  a  prayer  for  our  dead.  Does 
not  the  Ave  Maria  ring  in  your  country  ?  "  We  answered 
that  clocks  and  watches  kept  better  time  than  the  priest  who 
told  his  donna  to  ring  when  he  felt  hungry  or  delayed  the  ringing 
if  he  happened  to  be  busy.  The  old  man  shook  his  head  and 
said  :  "  England  must  be  a  dreary  place  without  the  Ave 
Maria,  one  would  never  be  in  time  for  anything  ;  I  have  a 
watch,  but  the  spring  broke  so  often  that  I  no  longer 
use  it." 

We  were  reminded  of  Virgil  every  moment.  The  plough 
is  what  he  describes,  and  the  peasant  still  asks  his  Padrone's 
permission  to  go  into  the  wood  and  fell  an  oak  to  fashion 
into  a  plough-beam,  a  stanga,  "  stregola  "  (handle),  earth- 
boards,  orecchi,  "  aures  "  (ears),  and  share-beams  with  double 
backs,  dentale  a  due  dorsi,  "  duplici  aptantur  dentalia  dorso," 
which  hold  the  gombero,  "  vomero,"  or  iron  coulter  for  breaking 


196  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

up  the  earth.  Old-fashioned  peasants  still  call  their  plough 
bonibero  instead  of  aratro. 

All  day  long  the  handsome  white  oxen,  their  heads  gaily 
decked  with  scarlet  and  yellow  tassels,  dragged  the  heavy 
red  cart  with  a  large  vat,  full  of  the  grapes  we  had  picked 
tied  on  it,  from  the  vineyard  to  the  villa.  There  the  grapes 
were  transferred  into  huge  vats  in  the  tinaia  to  ferment. 
Every  twelve  hours  the  peasants,  after  rolling  up  their  trousers 
and  carefully  washing  their  legs  and  feet,  stamped  down  the 
fermenting  mass  to  prevent  the  top  layer  from  becoming 
acid  by  too  long  a  contact  with  the  air.  This  must  be 
thoroughly  done,  or  the  contents  of  a  vat,  many  hectolitres, 
would  turn  to  vinegar.  The  scene  in  the  tinaia  in  the  evening 
was  most  picturesque.  In  the  large  building,  dimly  lit  by  little 
oil  lamps  shaped  like  those  out  of  old  Etruscan  tombs,  stood  rows 
of  enormous  vats,  up  and  down  which  the  men  scrambled 
with  purple-stained  legs  singing  stornelli  at  the  top  of  their 
voice  as  they  danced  about  vigorously  on  the  grapes.  Many 
of  the  tunes  were  noted  down  in  the  evening  by  Laura  Taylor, 
who  was  an  admirable  musician.  A  certain  Beppe,  a  famous 
improvisatore,  wove  the  names  of  Laura,  Lucia,  and  Antonio 
(Tom,  he  said,  could  not  possibly  be  a  name  as  it  had  only 
one  syllable)  into  his  verses,  paying  them  high-flown  compli- 
ments. Tom  declared  he  did  not  the  least  recognize  himself 
as  the  clever,  handsome,  stalwart  Antonio  who  performed 
such  wonderful  feats. 

Near  Castagnolo  was  the  picturesque  old  Orsi  villa.  We 
had  made  friends  with  the  three  young  men,  who  all  sang 
delightfully  and  came  in  often  with  their  guitars.  The 
youngest,  Carlo  Orsi,  who  will  be  remembered  by  some  of  my 
readers,  was  a  sculptor.  He  had  considerable  talent,  drew 
admirably,  and  had  a  thoroughly  artistic  nature.  But  marble 
is  costly,  and  when  Tom  Taylor  gave  him  a  box  of  water- 
colours  and  a  block  he  partially  abandoned  the  chisel  for  the 
brush  with  great  success.  All  the  winter  I  worked  hard  at 
copying  out  my  mother's  letters,  and  in  the  spring  the  second 
volume  of  Letters  from  Egypt  was  published  and  met  with 
the  same  success  as  the  first. 


REMINISCENCES  197 

In  the  summer  I  went  to  London.  When  dining  with  the 
Burrs  one  night  in  Eaton  Place,  Mrs.  Burr  told  Mr.  Fergusson 
how  I  had  serenaded  friends  of  hers  in  Venice,  and  how  our 
gondola  had  been  surrounded  and  followed  down  the  Grand 
Canal  by  people  curious  to  know  who  the  unknown  singer 
was  whose  songs  were  new  to  Venice.  A  smart,  rather  "  su- 
perior "  young  officer  sitting  next  to  me  said,  with  a  supercilious 
air,  that  such  things  were  all  very  well  in  Italy  but  would  be 
impossible  in  London.  I  laughed  and  asked,  why  ?  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  I  bet  a  sovereign  you  would  not  do  it."  I  answered  : 
"  Done,  only  you  must  come  and  take  the  coppers."  He 
demurred,  but  everyone  declared  he  was  bound  to  go.  Bor- 
rowing a  wideawake  hat  and  a  coat  from  Mr.  Burr,  I  pinned 
up  my  dress,  slung  my  guitar  over  my  shoulder,  and  sallied 
forth  with  my  reluctant  companion.  We  got  three  half- 
crowns  in  Eaton  Place  and  several  shillings  in  Eaton  Square, 
Seeing  Lady  Molesworth's  house  lit  up  I  began  to  sing  and  a 
powdered  footman  came  up  to  say  her  Ladyship  wished  me 
to  go  in,  which  I  refused  to  do.  Some  of  her  guests  came  out 
on  the  balcony,  encored  the  Regina  del  Deserto^  and  sent  me 
down  half  a  sovereign,  which  the  poor  young  officer  had  to  take 
from  the  footman.  "  If  you  are  satisfied,"  I  said,  to  his  evident 
relief,  "  we'll  go  back."  I  have  forgotten  his  name,  but  if  he 
should  read  this  it  may  recall  our  evening's  excursion  to  his 
memory. 

At  Aldermaston  later  I  met  Miss  Thompson  (now  Lady 
Butler),  who  was  going  to  Florence  in  September  to  sketch  the 
Michelangelo /^//?.f  for  the  Graphic.  She  asked  me  about  lodg- 
ings for  herself  and  her  sister  Alice,  so  I  invited  them  to  come 
and  stay  at  Castagnolo,  from  whence  she  could  easily  drive 
into  Florence  and  do  her  drawings.  While  I  was  at  the  Burrs' 
Sir  Frederick  Burton  came  for  a  week-end  and  at  once  asked  me 
about  Signorelli's  School  of  Pan.  When  I  told  him  the  story 
he  looked  quite  savage  and  wished  he  had  been  Director  of 
the  National  Gallery  then.  We  made  great  friends  and  our 
friendship  lasted  without  a  cloud,  which  people  told  me  was 
rather  extraordinary,  as  Sir  Frederick  easily  took  offence. 
While  the  Miss  Thompsons  were  at  Castagnolo  he  suddenly 


198  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

appeared  one  day  and  asked  whether  we  could  give  him  a 
bed.  He  had  fled  from  Florence  because  at  the  table  d'hote 
he  had  been  worried  hy  two  gushing  English  spinsters  who 
asked  his  opinion  on  Botticelli,  Era  Angelico,  etc,  etc.,  and 
talked  nonsense.  So  he  expatiated  on  the  enjoyment  he  had 
experienced  from  the  works  of  two  great  masters,  Mortadella 
di  Bologna  and  Coteghino  da  Modena,  which  he  was  sure  they 
would  like.  Next  day  they  told  him  their  search  in  the  Pitti 
Gallery  had  been  fruitless,  but  that  a  friend  who  knew  the 
director  was  to  take  them  next  day  to  the  Uffizi.  Alarmed  at 
the  prospect  of  their  indignation,  he  packed  his  bag  and  came  to 
us,  as  Florence  was  so  full  for  the  fetes  that  he  had  not  been 
able  to  find  a  room. 

Talking  of  galleries,  one  sometimes  heard  in  them  amusing 
remarks  about  the  pictures  or  the  painters.  In  the  Pitti  Gallery 
catalogues  lie  on  the  tables  in  every  room  with  the  titles  of 
the  pictures  and  the  names  of  the  artists  in  Italian  on  one  side, 
in  French  on  the  other.  One  day  I  was  standing  in  front  of 
the  Bella  di  Tiziano  when  three  Frenchmen  came  up. 
Looking  at  the  catalogue  on  the  ItaHan  side,  one  of  them 
exclaimed  :  Ma  foi,  c^est  trop  fort  !  Ces  imbeciles  d'ltaliens 
ne  savent  -pas  meme  ecrire  le  nom  de  Titien.  Tiziano  (with  a 
strong  accent  on  the  o),  c^est  ridicule. 

The  country  round  Castagnolo  afforded  endless  subjects 
for  sketching.  The  village  of  Lastra-a-Signa  near  by  was  most 
picturesque  with  its  fine  old  mediaeval  gateways  and  walls, 
interesting  to  us  because  the  walls  were  built,  or  at  least 
restored,  by  an  Englishman,  Sir  John  Hawkwood,  in  1377. 
The  little  place  paid  dearly  for  being  chosen  as  a  bulwark  of 
Florence.  Hawkwood's  walls  did  not  save  it  from  being  taken 
and  sacked  in  1397  by  Galeazzo  Visconti,  sworn  enemy  of  the 
Republic,  and  again  by  the  Prince  of  Orange  in  1529.  The 
breach,  made  by  the  Spanish  battering-rams  is  still  visible. 
In  the  garden  of  the  monastery  of  S.  Lucia,  which  crowns  a 
hill  to  the  south,  are  remains  of  the  strong  castle  of  the  powerful 
Counts  of  Fucecchio,  destroyed  by  the  Florentines  in  1107. 

One  day  we  followed  the  old  Pisan  road  up  the  valley  of 
Rimaggio.    The  tiny  stream,  which  in  winter  gives  itself  the 


REMINISCENCES  199 

airs  of  a  roaring  torrent,  was  trickling  quietly  below  among  the 
boulders,  and  the  steep  hill-sides  were  covered  with  pine  trees 
and  tall  heather,  under  which  pink  cyclamen  and  lilac  col- 
chicum  gleamed  here  and  there.  Goats  and  sheep,  the  curse 
of  Italy,  were  scattered  about,  destroying  the  young  shoots  of 
trees  and  making  rapid  inroads  among  the  vineyards  when  they 
thought  the  shepherd  was  not  looking.  Men  with  no  land  of 
their  own  keep  small  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats,  which  they  drive 
along  the  roads  to  feed  on  the  hedges,  and  in  the  woods  of 
other  people,  doing  untold  damage.  There  are  laws  against 
it — in  Italy  laws  are  plentiful,  but  not  much  observed.  Half- 
way up  the  hill  we  passed  an  old  farm-house,  S.  Antonio, 
which  must  once  have  been  a  fortress.  A  contadina  asked  us 
to  go  in  and  see  the  chapel,  where  she  told  us  mass  was  cele- 
brated on  S.  Anthony's  Day.  Under  a  faded,  blue  calico 
curtain  behind  the  altar  was  an  old  fresco,  S.  Anthony  seated, 
with  three  saints  standing  on  either  side  and  God  the  Father 
above.  Roba  ajitica,  said  the  woman,  which  her  Padrone  had 
wished  to  restore,  but  artists  were  such  grasping  people  and 
colours  were  so  dear,  so  the  curtain  had  been  hung  up  to  hide 
the  dirty  saints.  After  climbing  a  steep  hill  we  saw  the  ruins 
of  Malmantile  standing  out  against  the  blue  sky.  The  castle 
is  more  celebrated  than  many  an  historical  fortress,  for  every 
Tuscan  knows  the  mock-heroic  poem  by  Lorenzo  Lippi 
//  Malmantile  Racquistato.  Lippi's  wit  was  better  than  his 
pictures.  The  proper  names  in  the  poem  are  nearly  all  ana- 
grams, and  the  moral  is  that  gay  and  greedy  people  generally 
die  on  a  dunghill.  From  every  side  the  view  was  splendid. 
Rolling  hills  faded  away  in  lilac-grey  beyond  the  Val  di  Pesa, 
and  the  twin  towers  of  San  Miniato  al  Tedesco,  once  the 
stronghold  of  the  Emperors  in  Tuscany,  where  poor  Pier  delle 
Vigne  was  blinded  by  the  order  of  Frederick  II,  rose  high  in 
the  air.  To  the  north  the  valley  of  the  Arno  was  hid  by  oak 
woods,  behind  which  rose  on  the  horizon  the  grey  mass  of 
Monte  Morello. 

In  April,  1875,  my  dear  old  grandmother  Lady  Duff  Gordon 
died  in  her  eighty-sixth  year,  having  survived  her  husband  fifty- 
two  years,  and  nearly  all  the  friends  of  her  early  youth.     Her 


200  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

father,  Sir  George  Aymand,  who  married  Miss  Cornewall 
the  heiress  of  Moccas  Court  and  took  her  name,  was  of  French 
extraction,  and  his  daughter  owed  much  of  her  charm,  hvely 
wit,  and  genial  nature  to  her  French  blood.  Her  unfailing 
cheerfulness  was  remarkable,  cut  off  as  she  was  from  general 
conversation  and  from  music,  which  she  loved,  by  deafness. 
"  Even  with  this  drawback,"  wrote  Tom  Taylor  of  his  old 
friend,  "  her  company  was  eagerly  sought  by  all  who  could 
appreciate  the  serenest  temper,  the  kindest  and  soundest  sense 
shown  in  her  judgments  of  men  and  things,  and  the  most 
shrewd,  though  genial,  humour  in  her  comments  upon  life 
and  its  accidents,  which  she  watched  as  one  who,  out  of  the 
game  as  she  was,  had  not  ceased  to  take  a  cordial  interest  in  the 
players.  .  .  .  Her  bright  face,  her  cordial  voice,  her  cheery 
smile,  the  warm  pressure  of  her  ready  hand,  will  live  long  as 
among  the  pleasantest  memories  of  some  grey-headed  and 
many  youthful  friends.  .  .  ."  ^ 

My  uncle  Cosmo  did  not  long  survive  his  mother.  He  died 
the  following  year,  and  Eothen  wrote  me  what  for  him  was  a 
long  letter  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  'Janet  Ross. 

Transitory,  and  for  the  moment  in  Devonshire, 

Se-ptember,  1876. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  fallen  into  such  hermit's  ways  as  to  be  capable 
of  remaining  in  strange  ignorance  of  the  events  going  on 
around  me,  and  until  your  kind  letter  apprized  me,  I  did  not 
know  of  Cosmo's  death.  I  never  saw  much  of  him,  but  associat- 
ing him  in  my  memory  with  your  dear  father  I  feel  a  pang 
at  the  thought  of  his  death,  and  there  was  a  charming  bright- 
ness in  his  looks  with  a  quick,  agile  manner  which  always  made 
it  pleasant  to  see  him.  Your  mother  used  to  be  fond  of  old 
ballads  and  liked  to  think  that  the  characteristics  of  particular 
families  which  they  sometimes  chronicled  are  to  be  recognized 

^   Moiring  Post,  13  Mny,  1875. 


REMINISCENCES  201 

in  the  descendants  at  this  day,  the  '  black  ElHots,'  for  instance, 
being  still  as  black  as  in  the  middle  ages.  But  what  made  me 
speak  of  this  was  a  family  characteristic  which  one  of  the  old 
ballads  ascribed  to  the  Gordons,  and  which  Cosmo  had  to  an 
extraordinary  extent.     What  the  ballad  said  was  : — 

*  He  turned  him  round  lightly 
As  the  Gordons  do  a  ' ;  ' 

and  Cosmo,  if  you  recollect,  had  a  way  of  moving  round  on  his 
heel  rapidly  and  yet  with  ease  and  grace.  Cosmo  so  loved  your 
dear  father,  and  that  alone  was  a  great  tie.  I  can  well  under- 
stand that  you  feel  his  loss. 

I  shall  look  for  the  Burmese  Legend.  You  have  so  many 
of  the  qualities  needed  for  writing  what  one  may  call  a  book, 
to  begin  with,  such  a  capital  style,  that  I  think  you  ought  to 
make  the  venture.    I  can  imagine  a  capital  book  of  this  sort  : 

'  Farm  Life  on  the  Arno  (with  illustrations).' 

I  have  always  understood  that  the  '  Georgics ' — farming 
business  in  Lombardy — were  the  best  things  that  Virgil  ever 
wrote.  If  you  were  to  read  them,  and  read  again  your  mother's 
descriptions  of  things  in  South  Africa  and  Egypt,  and  have  some 
photographs  made  of  the  farm  implements  and  of  the  peasant 
people,  and  then  apply  your  mind  to  the  subject,  the  pen 
which  always  serves  you  so  well  would  do  the  rest. 

I  am  very  much  touched  and  pleased,  my  dear  Janet,  with 
the  kind  earnestness  you  show  in  asking  me  to  come  to  you 
in  October.  I  have  not  discipline  and  method  enough  to  travel 
without  a  courier,  and  travel  with  one  is  a  bore  if,  as  custom 
seems  to  require,  such  courier  is  to  be  a  male.  What  I  ought 
to  have  would  be  an  active,  resolute,  wiry  Swiss  woman  to 
act  as  my  courier,  but  then  perhaps  I  should  have  to  go  where 
she  liked. 

My  dearest  Janet,  your  affectionate 

A.    W.    KiNGLAKE." 

In  the  winter  of  1877  Sir  William  Stirling  Maxwell  came  to 
Florence  and  dined  with  us.     The  meeting  was  a  sad  one. 


202  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  had  not  seen  him  since  the  death  of  my  dear  Aunt  Carrie 
in  June,  only  a  few  months  after  their  marriage,  and  found  him 
much  aged.  In  my  room  hung  the  head  of  Mrs.  Norton 
painted  by  Watts  for  my  mother  about  1848,  which  she 
mentions  in  an  undated  letter  to  my  mother  :  "  His  head  of 
me  is  much  flattered,  but  a  beautiful  thing.  I  am  sorry  not 
to  have  sat  more.  I  would  not  have  gone  to-day  for  anyone 
but  you,  for  I  was  fagged  and  hurried  to  death."  Sir  William 
had  evidently  never  seen  it  before,  and  looked  at  it  with  such 
longing  eyes  that  I  could  not  help  saying  :  "  Would  you  like 
it  ?  It  ought  to  be  yours  rather  than  mine."  He  wrung  my 
hand  silently  and  when  he  said  good  night  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  take  it  with  him,  saying  he  would  have  a  copy 
made  for  Carlotta  Norton,  and  then  murmured  something 
about  the  Dublin  Gallery  which  I  did  not  quite  catch.  Only 
a  few  days  later  he  died  in  Venice,  and  his  executors  were  good 
enough  to  give  me  back  the  portrait.  Some  years  later  Henry 
Doyle,  Director  of  the  Dublin  Gallery,  came  to  see  us  at 
Castagnolo  and  exclaimed  :  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Norton  !  What  a 
fine  Watts  !  We  have  no  portrait  of  her,  and  nothing  of  his." 
Sir  William's  last  words  flashed  across  my  mind,  and  in  an  evil 
moment  I  offered  the  portrait  to  him  for  the  Dublin  Gallery 
on  the  condition  that  he  was  to  send  me  a  copy.  I  say  "  evil  " 
because  Watts  left  the  head  cut  off  at  the  neck  like  those  he 
did  of  me  as  a  girl,  and  Doyle,  without  even  asking  my  leave, 
added  a  horrible  frill  and  a  black  dress.  He  did  not  send  me  a 
copy,  but  a  very  bad  small  photograph  by  which  I  saw  how 
the  picture  had  been  spoiled  and  vulgarized  by  his  ludicrous 
additions.  ^ 

At  Castagnolo  I  had  full  opportunity  for  studying  Tuscan 
agriculture,  as  our  landlord,  Marchese  Delia  Stufa,  was 
obliged  to  be  a  great  part  of  the  year  in  Rome  in  attendance 
on  the  King,  and  often  wrote  to  me  about  the  farms.  The 
knowledge  I  gained  was  useful  afterwards  when  we  bought 
a  place.     One  year  I  superintended  the  making  of  oil.     At 

'  Sir  \V.  Armstrong  was  kind  enough  to  send  me  a  good  photograph  for  this 
book.  If  the  reader  will  liide  the  frill,  and  sloping  shoulders — so  unlike  Mrs. 
Norton's — with  a  piece  of  paper,  he  will  see  how  far  finer  the  head  looks. 


THE    HON.    MRS.    NORTON'. 
By  G.   F.  Watts. 


REMINISCENCES  203 

last  the  peasants  had  become  alive  to  the  necessity  of  carefully 
gathering  the  olives  and  not  mixing  them  with  those  that 
had  fallen  to  the  ground  and  been  bruised.  In  former  times 
oil  was  simply  oil,  but  the  difference  in  price  between  first 
and  second  class  oil  had  become  universally  known  and  was 
felt  to  be  worth  taking  trouble  for.  As  the  olives  are  picked 
in  November  and  December  there  is  none  of  the  out-of-door 
jollity  which  accompanies  the  reaping  in  June,  or  the  vintage 
in  September.  A  cold  north  wind  does  not  tempt  anj'one  to 
sing  or  to  sit  about  ;  sometimes  the  men  have  to  come  down 
from  off  the  ladders  to  stamp  about  and  blow  on  their  cold 
fingers.  But  in  the  evening  when  a  big  fire  of  brushwood 
and  boughs  is  flaming  on  the  hearth,  friends  and  suitors 
come  to  eat  paii'  unto,  toasted  bread  dipped  in  the  freshly 
pressed  out  oil.  The  elders  chat  about  the  price  of  oxen  and 
the  prospects  of  next  year's  crops,  the  young  men  sing  stornelli 
and  pay  court  to  the  daughters  of  the  house.  My  English 
notions  were  rather  upset  when,  seeing  that  a  certain  Tonino 
was  evidently  in  love  with  the  second  daughter  of  one  of 
Delia  Stufa's  peasants  and  she  with  him,  I  asked  the  capoccio, 
or  head  of  the  house,  when  they  were  to  be  married.  "  Oh, 
there's  time,  there's  time,  who  knows,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Tonino's  sister  must  be  married  first  and  then  he  must  get 
leave  from  his  padrone,  who  may  not  allows  Tonino  to  marry 
at  all.  He  says  when  there  are  two  women  in  a  house  it  is  like 
a  fair,  but  when  there  are  three  it  is  hell.  Tonino's  elder 
brother  has  a  wife,  a  good  woman,  but  between  ourselves  she 
has  a  long  tongue  and  a  short  temper." 

The  mezzeria  or  land  tenure  in  Tuscany  is  peculiar,  and 
a  memory  of  its  Roman  origin  still  survives  in  the  way  peasants 
speak  of  themselves  as  the  gente  "  gens  "  of  their  landlord. 
Some  families  have  been  for  several  hundred  yea—  on  the 
land  and  have  almost  a  feeling  of  absolute  ownership.  They 
pay  no  rent  for  their  house,  which  the  landlord  keeps  in  repair, 
besides  paying  all  the  taxes  and  providing  money  for  the 
purchase  of  cattle.  If  a  beast  dies  the  peasant  and  the  pro- 
prietor share  the  loss,  or  the  gain,  if  sold  with  a  profit,  and 
everything  produced  on  the  farm  is  divided  between  them. 


204  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

People  often  ask  how  the  proprietor  can  possibly  be  sure 
that  he  gets  his  fair  share.  If  he  has  a  decent  fattore,  or  knows 
a  little  about  what  his  fodere  ought  to  give,  and  if  he  treats 
his  peasants  well,  he  will  not  be  cheated.  As  a  rule  the  con- 
tadini  are  good  fellows,  and  the  knowledge  that  a  man  who 
is  sent  away  for  dishonesty  would  find  it  almost  impossible 
to  get  another  fodere,  and  would  sink  to  the  far  lower  grade 
of  a  day  labourer,  is  a  great  incentive  to  honesty.  Every 
month  the  cafoccio,  or  head  of  the  family,  comes  to  have  his 
book  written  up  by  the  fattore  when  the  unfailing  memory 
of  these  often  quite  unlettered  peasants  is  seen — this  ex- 
perience has  made  me  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  know- 
ledge of  reading  and  writing  enfeebles  the  memory.  The 
word  or  signature  of  the  cafoccio  binds  his  whole  family, 
none  of  whom  can  marry  or  go  out  into  the  world  without 
his  consent,  and  that  of  the  -padrone.  The  eldest  son  succeeds 
his  father  as  cafoccio  unless  the  landlord  has  reason  to  doubt 
his  capacity,  when  he  appoints  an  uncle  or  a  younger  brother. 
The  massaia,  or  house-mother,  is  generally  the  mother  or 
the  wife  of  the  head-man  ;  she  rules  over  the  women  and 
keeps  the  purse  for  their  clothes,  for  salt  and  pepper,  and  sees 
that  the  girls  work,  save  when  there  is  much  to  do  on  the  farm, 
a  certain  time  every  day  for  their  dowry,  at  straw-plaiting, 
basket-making,  etc.  Courtship  generally  lasts  some  time, 
as  the  one  object  of  a  girl's  ambition  is  to  be  able  to  say  that 
she  has  a  damo  (a  follower).  Girls  under  sixteen  are  often 
engaged  to  lads  of  about  the  same  age  ;  this  means  waiting 
until  he  has  served  his  three  years  in  the  army,  which  he 
enters  at  twenty.  Every  Saturday  evening  the  damo  visits 
his  lady-love,  unless  she  lives  too  far  off,  and  on  holidays. 
When  the  time  has  come  the  cafoccio  goes  in  his  best  clothes 
solemnly  to  ask  whether  his  son,  or  nephew,  is  acceptable  to 
the  girl's  family.  This  is  a  serious  business  ;  he  tries  to  get 
as  much  as  he  can  in  the  shape  of  dowry,  the  others  to  give 
as  little  as  possible.  When  all  is  settled  a  stimatore,  or  valuer, 
is  summoned,  who  draws  up  an  inventory  of  the  bride's 
possessions.  The  poorest  girl  is  bound  to  bring  with  her  a  bed 
and  sheets,  a  cassofie,  or  marriage  chest,  now  often  represented 


REMINISCENCES  205 

by  a  prosaic  chest-of-dra\vers,  her  body  linen  and  two  or  three 
dresses  ;  also  a  vezzo  of  scaramazzi,  several  strings  of  irregular 
pearls ;  or  if  her  father  is  poor  and  she  for  some  reason  has 
been  unable  to  earn  much,  one  of  dark  red  coral.  The  vezzo 
always  represents  one  half  of  the  dowry.  The  inventory 
is  given  to  the  cafoccio  of  the  bridegroom's  family,  for  should 
he  die  without  issue  the  widow  has  the  right  to  claim  the  value 
of  her  dowry,  and  to  leave  the  house.  If  there  are  children 
she  may  remain  and  look  after  them,  but  the  cafoccio  is  their 
sole  guardian.  For  a  week  after  the  marriage  the  bride  is 
expected  to  be  up  before  sunrise,  to  light  the  fire  and  prepare 
coffee  for  the  men  before  they  go  out  to  work,  in  order  to 
show  that  she  is  a  diligent  housewife. 

In  the  summer  of  1879  I  went  to  England  while  my  husband 
took  the  baths  at  Aix  les  Bains.  As  usual  I  was  for  some  time 
at  Aldermaston,  and  met  there  Marianne  North,  a  rare  woman, 
simple,  clever  and  humorous,  very  independent,  and  with 
a  marvellous  power  of  work,  as  her  Gallery  at  Kew  of  flower 
paintings,  done  in  every  part  of  the  globe,  can  testify.  We 
made  friends  at  once  as  she  had  known  my  mother  as  a  girl, 
and  said  I  was  sometimes  so  like  her  in  voice  and  manner 
that  it  made  her  feel  young  again.  Miss  North  was  also  an 
admirable  musician  and  liked  to  hear  me  sing  Italian  popular 
songs  to  the  guitar.  I  stayed  with  her  in  London  afterwards 
at  the  top  of  so  high  a  building  in  Victoria  Street  that  it  made 
one  very  careful  not  to  forget  purse  or  pocket-handkerchief 
before  going  out.  The  flat  was  full  of  wonderful  and  beautiful 
things  she  had  collected  during  her  wanderings,  the  most 
charming  to  me  was  an  opossum  mouse,  "  Sir  Henry,"  which 
became  so  fond  of  me  that  I  think  his  mistress  was  almost 
jealous.  We  went  to  her  Gallery  at  Kew  one  day,  which  was 
not  finished,  though  some  of  her  paintings  were  already  fixed 
on  the  walls.  There  we  found  a  large  party  of  working-men 
standing  round  Miss  Raincock,  an  artist  who  lived  in  Rome, 
and  listening  while  she  read  out  what  had  been  written  of 
the  catalogue.  They  were  much  interested  and  wanted  to 
know  if  "  all  those  things  were  done  by  hand."  In  September 
Miss  North  came  to  Castagnolo  to  see  the  vintage  and  made 


2o6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

sketches  of  the  different  kinds  of  grapes.  My  husband  and 
she  were  happy  together  over  his  orchids,  of  which  he  was 
beginning  to  have  a  fine  collection,  and  she  encouraged  me 
in  my  attempts  to  paint  them  for  him. 

The  year  1880  will  always  remain  in  my  memory  as  peculiarly 
sad.  We  went  to  London  for  a  short  time  to  stay  with  Mr. 
Steel,  and  a  few  days  after  our  arrival  I  heard  that  the  friend 
of  all  my  life,  dear  Tom  Taylor,  was  dangerously  ill.  I  took 
a  hansom  and  drove  down  to  Clapham,  but  alas  was  too  late 
to  see  him  alive.  A  more  generous,  large-hearted,  kind  man 
never  breathed.  The  number  of  struggling  young  artists 
and  writers  to  whom  he  gave  encouragement  and  help  of 
every  sort  was  never  known,  not  even  by  his  wife  ;  all  done 
so  simply  and  with  such  a  cheery  smile,  as  though  it  cost  him 
nothing.  Often  I  joined  Laura  in  begging  him  not  to  work 
so  hard  for  others — to  take  some  rest.  He  was  unable  to  refuse. 
How  much  sunshine  went  out  of  the  life  of  those  who  loved 
him  on  that  fatal  12th  July.  One  could  no  longer  say,  with 
a  certainty  of  receiving  excellent  advice  :   "  I'll  ask  Tom." 

When  we  returned  to  Italy  I  found  time  hang  rather  heavy 
on  my  hands  and  began  what  I  now  see  was  perhaps  an  im- 
pudent undertaking.  My  French  friends  had  often  deplored 
that  my  mother's  Egyptian  letters  were  a  sealed  book  to  them. 
Little  realizing  the  extreme  difficulty  of  translating  her 
terse,  picturesque  style  into  a  foreign  language,  I  determined 
to  do  them  into  French.  St.  Hilaire  encouraged  me,  promised 
to  correct  the  proofs  and  to  submit  them  to  M.  Thiers. 
Dear  old  man — the  alterations  he  made  in  my  French,  which 
sadly  needed  revising,  were  small,  but  he  Frenchified  the 
EngUsh  names.  My  mother  became  Lady  Lucie,  or  Lady 
Duff,  my  father  Sir  Duff.  92  Fahrenheit,  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason,  was  altered  to  92  Wedgwood,  et  ainsi  de  suite. 
As  the  proofs  went  straight  from  him  to  M.  Hetzel,  I  only 
knew  what  had  happened  when  copies  of  the  book  were  sent 
to  me,  and  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything.  In  the  following 
letter  he  acknowledges  the  last  batch  of  proofs  and  my  con- 
dolences for  being  again  in  office. 


REMINISCENCES  207 

M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Dccemhre  12,  1880. 

Ministere  des  Aifaires  Etrangeres. 
"  Ma  chere  Janet, 

J'ai  regu  votre  lettre  du  9  ce  matin  avec  les  dernieres 
epreuves,  je  les  lirais  avec  plaisir. 

Vous  me  connaissez  assez  pour  juger  fort  bien  que  c'est 
malgre  moi  que  je  suis  au  poste  que  j'occupe.  A  tout  age, 
j'ai  prefere  rester  avec  Aristote  ;  mais  a  mesure  que  les  annees 
s'accumulent,  le  tete-a-tete  devient  de  plus  en  plus  necessaire  ; 
'  la  peau  de  chagrin  '  se  retrecit  avec  une  incroyable  rapidite  ; 
les  annees  s'envolent ;  et  les  pauvres  volumes  qui  me  restent 
encore  a  terminer  m'attendent  vainement.  Mais  par  bonheur, 
les  Cabinets  ne  sont  pas  eternels. 

Madame  Thiers  est  morte  hier  soir  apres  de  longues  souf- 
frances ;  il  y  avait  plus  de  deux  mois  qu'elle  ne  pouvait  pas 
quitter  le  lit.  Pour  elle  c'est  une  vraie  delivrance.  Sa  soeur  va 
rester  seule  de  toute  la  famille,  elle  etait  la  plus  jeune.  Mais 
la  fin  des  choses  humaines  est  toujours  bien  triste.  La  seule 
consolation,  c'est  que  soi  meme  on  doit  aussi  finir. 

Mais  je  ne  veux  pas  attrister  votre  jeunesse. 

Agreez,  ma  chere  Janet,  tons  mes  voeux  pour  votre  sante. 

Votre  bien  devout 

B.  St.  Hilaire." 

Having  begun  to  write  I  bethought  myself  of  Kinglake's 
advice  and  wrote,  not  a  book,  but  several  articles  on  the 
vintage,  Tuscan  country  life,  etc.,  which  were  published 
in  Macmillan's  magazine.  I  then  suggested  to  my  old  friend 
Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  George)  Grove  a  book  on  Virgil  and 
Tuscan  agriculture.    He  answered  : — 


2o8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 


George  Grove  to  Janet  Ross. 

29  Bedford  Street,  London,  August  12,   1881. 

"  My  dear  Tuscan  Farmer, 

Your  idea  is  a  very  pretty  one.  I  have  consulted  the 
gods  upon  it  and  they  shake  their  heads  at  the  volume  as 
a  book.  But  perhaps  you  mean  an  article  ?  If  so,  I  am  your 
man  for  ten  pages.  I  send  you  a  prose  translation  of  Virgil 
of  which  the  Firm  begs  your  acceptance  and  a  little  book  of 
notes  on  the  second  Georgic.  I  am  sure  you  will  do  it  well, 
and  if  you  feel  inclined  to  favour  the  Magazine  I  am  (as  I 
said)  your  man,  but  that  I  am  always,  as  you  know. 

G.  Grove," 

This  is  the  last  day  of  my  sixty-first  year.     Alas  !     Alas  ! 
How  little  done — how  much  left  undone. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  year  1882  is  firmly  fixed  in  my  memory  because 
at  Aldermaston  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  John 
Addington  Symonds.  The  train  from  London  was 
late  and  I  had  only  just  time  to  dress  and  hurry 
down  to  dinner.  There  were  several  country  neighbours 
in  addition  to  the  guests  staying  in  the  house,  but  I  was  so 
busy  talking  to  Mr.  Burr  that  I  paid  small  attention  to  the 
people  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  After  dinner  Stornelli 
were  demanded  and  rather  unwillingly  I  went  to  fetch  my 
guitar,  for  it  is  uphill  work  to  sing  Tuscan  folk-songs  to  an 
audience  which  does  not  understand  a  word  you  are  saying. 
My  guitar  seemed  to  get  flatter  and  flatter,  and  my  singing 
more  Britannic  as  I  looked  at  the  unresponsive  faces,  when 
a  voice  behind  me  exclaimed  bene,  hravui  I  turned  round 
and  Mrs.  Burr  introduced  Mr.  Symonds.  Love  of  Italy  and 
of  Italian  peasant  songs  was  the  first  bond  between  us,  w^hich 
soon  grew  on  my  side  to  the  keenest  admiration  for  the  frail, 
delicate  man  whose  indomitable  power  of  wall  and  brain 
conquered  bodily  weakness  and  suffering  which  would  have 
prostrated  anyone  else.  How  he  ever  got  through  the  amount 
of  work  he  accomplished  I  never  understood  :  it  can  only  be 
accounted  for  by  his  omnivorous  reading  and  his  excellent 
memory.  Few  Italians  knew  the  literature  of  their  country 
as  he  did.  No  obscure  poet  or  old  chronicler  could  be  men- 
tioned (sometimes  with  a  malicious  hope  of  puzzling  him) 
that  he  did  not  know  all  about.  Of  his  classical  knowledge 
I  am  not  competent  to  speak,  but  his  daughter  once  told  me 
of  the  arrival  of  Jowett,  the  Master  of  Balliol,  at  Davos, 
with  two  bags,  one  big,  the  other  small.  The  big  one  contained 
the  Master's  translation  of  Plato,  over  which  long  evenings 
p  209 


210  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

were  spent  in  grave  discussions  about  obscure  passages,  of 
some  of  which  Jowett  accepted  his  former  pupil's  reading. 
Symonds'  brilliant  conversation  and  great  charm  of  manner 
are  impossible  to  describe ;  his  talk  was  like  fireworks,  swift 
and  dazzling,  and  he  had  a  wonderful  gift  of  sympathy — 
even  with  the  fads  and  foibles  of  others.  No  struggling 
young  writer  ever  appealed  to  him  in  vain,  both  his  brains 
and  his  purse  were  at  his  service. 

While  at  Aldermaston  Symonds  said  I  ought  to  publish 
some  of  the  Italian  popular  songs.  I  told  him  that  though 
I  had  a  very  good  ear  and  could  pick  up  a  tune  easily  I  knew 
nothing  about  music,  not  even  the  names  of  the  notes  on  the 
guitar,  but  I  promised  to  try.  So  later  with  some  difficulty 
I  picked  out  the  airs  on  the  piano  and  sent  them  to  Laura 
Taylor.  There  were  many  mistakes,  in  what  to  her  amuse- 
ment I  called  crosses  and  b's  (sharps  and  flats),  which  she 
corrected.  When  the  small  collections  of  Canzone  and 
Rispetti  were  published  I  sent  them  to  Symonds,  telling  him 
his  favourite  Rispetto,  "The  Swallow,"  was  not  among  them, 
as  the  words  were  so  hard  to  put  into  English.  An  old  man 
who  went  about  the  country  selling  boot  and  stay  laces  used 
to  sing  it  and  said  he  had  learned  it  from  his  grandmother. 
Symonds  offered  to  translate  the  words,  and  I  sent  them  to 
Davos.  Here  are  his  admirable  English  versions  of  the 
Rispetti,  and  of  a  very  fine  patriotic  song  I  picked  up  from  a 
gondolier  in  Venice  : — 

John  Addington  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 
Am  Hof.  Davos  Platz,  Switzerland,  July  14,   1883, 

**  O  swallow,  swallow,  with  the  sea  beneath  thee. 
How  fair  thy  feathers  shine,  how  free  they  hover. 
Give  me  one  feather  from  thy  wings,  I  prithee  ; 
Fain  would  I  write  a  letter  to  my  lover. 
And  when  I've  written  it  and  made  it  charming, 
I'll  give  thee  back  thy  feather,  swallow  darling  : 
And  when  I've  written  it  and  gilt  it  over, 
I'll  give  thee  back  thy  feather,  sweet  sea-rover. 


REMINISCENCES  211 

0  love,  you  pass,  singing,  while  night  is  sleeping, 
I,  wretched  I,  lie  in  my  bed  and  listen  ; 

1  to  my  mother  turn  my  shoulders,  weeping  ; 
Blood  are  the  tears  that  on  my  pillow  glisten. 
Beyond  the  bed  I've  set  a  broad  stream  flowing  ; 
With  so  much  weeping  I  am  sightless  growing  : 
Beyond  the  bed  I've  made  a  flowing  river  ; 
With  so  much  weeping  I  am  blind  for  ever. 

Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

The  above  are  translations  of  the  two  Rispetti  you 
sent  me.  I  have  made  them  into  double  rhymes  because  I 
thought  they  would  suit  the  rhythm  of  the  melodies  better 
thus.  If  you  would  like  them  with  single  rhymes,  I  could 
send  you  much  closer  versions.  But  if  I  could  only  hear  you 
sing,  I  could  make  the  English  words  far  more  impassioned 
and  far  simpler.  Alas,  alas  !  And  here  let  me  say  that  it  is 
truly  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  turn  these  things  into  English. 
If  I  can  at  all  do  them  to  your  liking,  please  send  me  as  many 
as  you  want,  you  will  find  me  ready  ;  for  nothing  touches  me 
so  deeply  as  these  Tuscan  Folks  lieder,  and  the  memory  of 
their  music  ;  a  memory  with  which,  I  need  not  say,  you  are 
indissolubly  connected.  ...  If  I  could  have  heard  the  printed 
music  you  sent  me  last  March,  should  I  not  have  written 
to  you  about  it  ?  Should  I  not  P  But  who  could  make  me 
hear  it  but  yourself  ?  You  sent  me  a  dish  of  Tantalus — for 
which  indeed  I  thank  you — but  which  I  most  yearningly 
must  put  by.  I  keep  and  treasure  it,  till  someone  comes. 
What  will  a  piano  do  ?  There  is  only  a  piano  here.  And  no 
voice,  and  no  Italian.  I  am  ill,  and  writing  on  a  sofa.  So 
excuse  my  feverish  style.    Do  not  forget  me.    Ever  yours, 

J.  A.  Symonds." 

John  Addington  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross, 

Am  Hof.  Davos  Platz,  November  19,  1883. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  long  it  is  since  I  received 
your  letter  with  the  Prayer  of  Venice  to  her  King,  a  truly 
heart-stirring  patriotic  song,  as  you  rightly  call  it. 


212  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  enclose  now  such  a  version  of  it  as  I  could  make  by  keeping 
as  close  as  I  could  to  the  rhythm,  quality  of  rhymes  and  feeling 
of  the  original.  I  don't  know  whether  you  want  to  sing  the 
translation.  If  so,  I  might  have  done  better  perhaps  had  I 
known  the  metre.  ...  I  am  always  at  your  disposal  for  trans- 
lations. It  is  a  pleasure  to  try  one's  best  at  such  beautiful  and 
spirited  compositions. 

Thousands  of  gondolas  swept  o'er  my  waters 
When  I  gave  troth  to  the  sea  tliat  was  mine  : 
Now  are  they  few — sad  and  lone  as  my  daughters, 
Dark  as  the  gaol  where  in  fetters  I  pine. 

King,  break  my  chains,  give  back  freedom  to  mc. 

Then,  not  till  then,  shall  Italia  be  free. 

Once  on  my  towers  in  the  pride  of  its  bravery 
Waved  the  great  tricolor  standard  on  high  : 
Now  like  the  badge  of  my  bondage  and  slavery 
Floats  the  loathed  yellow  and  black  to  the  sky. 

King,  give  me  back,  give  my  banner  to  me. 

Then,  not  till  then,  shall  Italia  be  free. 

Guarding  the  book  of  my  Saint  in  his  glory. 
Roared  my  brave  lion  through  ages  of  pride  : 
Hushed  on  the  waves  is  that  voice,  and  my  story 
Sinks  into  naught  while  he  dreams  by  the  tide. 

King,  from  his  sleep  wake  my  lion  for  me. 

Then,  not  till  then,  shall  Italia  be  free. 

Believe  me,  always  very  sincerely  yours, 

John  Addington  Symonds." 

One  day  in  the  late  autumn  of  1883  I  met  in  Florence  an 
old  friend  of  my  childhood,  Sir  James  Lacaita,  whom  I 
had  hardly  seen  since  the  days  when  his  name  was  such  a 
puzzle  to  me  that  I  always  called  him  Latata.  He  came  several 
times  to  Castagnolo,  and  happened  to  be  there  on  one  of 
the  evenings  when  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Teck,  with 
Princess  May  and    Prince  Alexander,  did  us  the  honour  of 


REMINISCENCES  213 

dining  with  us.  Our  dear  old  friend  Mr.  Peter  Wells,  who, 
like  everyone  who  knew  the  Duchess,  admired  and  loved  her, 
was  also  of  the  party.  Few  women  possessed  the  charm  of 
the  Duchess  of  Teck,  she  took  interest  in  everybody  and  every- 
thing, and  her  ringing  laugh  when  I  reminded  her  of  our 
collision  at  Orleans  House  years  before  would  have  made  even 
a  misanthrope  smile.  She  sang  some  old  German  Studenten 
lieder  with  wonderful  verve  and  go  in  a  remarkably  sweet 
voice  and  looked  so  handsome  that  I  could  hardly  take  my 
eyes  oif  her.  Many  women  look  ugly  when  they  sing,  make 
grimaces,  and  give  one  the  feeling  that  the  exertion  is  too 
much  for  them.  The  Duke,  still  a  very  good-looking  man, 
was  very  agreeable.  He  fell  in  love  with  my  cockatoo,  which 
quite  appreciated  his  attentions  and  was,  as  he  said,  most 
condescending.  The  young  Princess  was  a  remarkably  at- 
tractive girl,  rather  silent,  but  with  a  look  of  quiet  deter- 
mination mixed  with  kindliness  which  augured  well  for  the 
future.  Prince  Alexander,  then  a  small  boy,  got  very  tired 
as  the  evening  wore  on — curled  himself  up  in  a  corner  of  a 
sofa  and  went  fast  asleep.  I  longed  to  put  him  comfortably 
to  bed. 

Sir  James  Lacaita  was  on  the  way  to  Leucaspide,  his  Apulian 
estate  near  Taranto,  and  asked  us  to  go  there  in  March  and 
see  what  Magna  Grecia  was  like,  warning  us  that  we  should 
have  to  rough  it.  Our  Tuscan  friends  were  much  excited  and 
rather  alarmed  at  our  daring  to  go  to  such  an  unknown  region 
as  Apulia.  I  was  advised  by  several  people  to  leave  my  ear- 
rings and  gold  watch  at  home — "  those  Meridionali  are  all 
thieves  and  robbers,  you  may  very  likely  be  captured  by  brigands 
and  murdered.  It  is  a  dangerous  expedition  on  which  you 
are  bound."  Few  of  them  knew  where  Apulia  was — "  some- 
where below  Naples,  and  the  Neapolitans  are  a  bad  lot." 
The  North  Italians  hardly  regard  them  as  fellow-countrymen  ; 
indeed,  when  speaking  of  themselves  Italians  generally  tell 
you  they  are  Lombards,  Venetians,  Piedmontese,  Tuscans,  etc. 

When  on  arriving  at  Massafra  late  in  the  evening  we  were 
met  at  the  station  by  Lacaita's  handsome  guard  with  a  big 
pistol  st\ick  in  his  belt  and  a  gun  slung  over  his  shoulder, 


214  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

who  trotted  by  our  side  to  Leucaspide,  I  wondered  whether 
all  the  tales  I  had  heard  might  not  have  some  foundation. 
The  moon  was  brilliant,  and  the  huge  olive  trees,  weird  and 
fantastic  in  shape,  looked  as  if  they  could  harbour  an  army  of 
brigands.  But  all  such  foolish  imaginings  vanished  when  we 
turned  off  the  high  road  and  saw  a  long  row  of  arches  in  the 
distance  on  rising  ground,  lit  up  here  and  there  with  lamps. 
As  we  approached  we  were  greeted  with  a  carillon,  cow-bells, 
sheep-bells,  hand-bells — every  inhabitant  was  armed  with  a 
bell. 

No  wonder  Sir  James  loved  his  bel  paese.  Save  the  desert, 
no  place  ever  attracted  me  so  much  ;  there  was  the  same 
sense  of  immense  space,  with  the  addition  of  wonderful 
vegetation.  Hedges  of  rosemary  in  full  flower,  lentisk,  myrtle, 
gumcistus  both  pink  and  white,  and,  most  charming  of  all,  the 
exquisite  morea  fugax,  the  small  iris,  so  abundant  in  places 
that  it  is  like  a  bit  of  the  sky  lying  on  the  ground.  It  is  almost 
as  good  as  a  watch,  for  the  flowers  open  at  midday  and  fade 
with  the  setting  sun  ;  but  as  there  are  many  buds  on  the  slender 
stem  it  lasts  for  days  in  beauty.  Squills  are  a  pest  to  all  save 
the  snails ;  at  a  little  distance  the  large  green  leaves  look  as 
though  they  had  smallpox  owing  to  the  quantities  of  small 
whitish  snails  clustering  about  them ;  while  the  tall  asphodel 
at  the  foot  of  the  olive  trees,  weird  and  graceful  as  they  bent 
to  the  sea  breeze,  gave  out  a  strange,  pungent  odour  unlike 
anything  else.  We  were  never  tired  of  looking  down  from  the 
loggia,  or  arcade,  which  ran  all  along  the  south-west  front  of 
the  Impostura,  as  Sir  James  laughingly  called  Leucaspide, 
so  imposing  in  its  dazzling  whiteness  from  a  httle  distance, 
and  giving  itself  the  airs  of  a  large  palazzo.  From  the  garden 
below  came  the  scent  of  lemon  and  orange  trees,  laden  with 
fruit  and  thick  with  blossom,  of  Parma  violets  and  of  stocks. 
Then  some  six  miles  of  olive  trees,  looking  grey  against  the 
young  corn  beneath  them,  with  here  and  there  a  caroub  tree, 
its  bright  green  leaves  ghstening  as  though  oiled,  and  then  the 
Ionian  sea  with  the  snow'-capped  Basilicata  Mountains  on  the 
further  shore.  To  the  south  lay  Taranto,  white  as  snow  in 
the  sunshine,  and  the  islands  of  S.  Pietro  and  S.  Paolo  (the 


REMINISCENCES  215 

Choerade)  floating  on  the  milky  sea  near  by.  Far,  far  away 
were  the  rugged  peaks  of  the  mountains  of  Calabria.  My  head 
reeled  as  our  dear  host  pointed  out  where  Metaponto  lay, 
and  talked  about  Hercules,  Alybas  and  Metabos,  as  though 
they  had  been  his  grandfather's  friends,  about  Heracleia  and 
Crotona,  as  though  they  had  been  destroyed  last  year,  and  for 
a  brief  space  I  felt  quite  a  learned  person.  Horace  and  Virgil 
were  so  often  quoted  and  talked  about  that  I  changed  the  baby- 
name  by  which  I  had  always  called  Sir  James  into  "  Old  CEba- 
lian."  He  adopted  it  at  once  and  always  signed  letters  to  me 
"your  affectionate  Old  CEbalian." 

Close  behind  the  house  is  the  gravina,  or  ravine,  of  Leucas- 
pide.  The  precipitous  rocks,  clothed  with  rosemary,  gumcistus, 
and  lentisk,  just  coming  into  bloom  and  making  crimson 
patches  under  the  wild  pear  trees  and  Aleppo  pines,  descend 
almost  perpendicularly  about  four  or  five  hundred  feet. 
With  difficulty  we  climbed  down  some  sixty  feet  to  a  ledge  in 
front  of  a  cavern  which  runs  far  underground.  It  branched 
off  into  two  arms  leading  into  large  lofty  halls  round  which 
seats,  or  couches,  were  cut  in  the  rock.  Owls  and  bats  resented 
our  intrusion  and  sometimes  put  out  our  candles  and  flew 
against  us.  The  gravina  runs  down  towards  the  sea,  gradually 
becoming  broader  and  broader  until  it  loses  itself  in  the  swampy 
seashore. 

Masserte,  farm-houses,  to  the  larger  of  which  the  country- 
house  of  the  owner  is  generally  attached,  are  few  and  far 
between  in  Apulia,  and  there  are  no  cottages,  for  all  field 
Tabour  is  done  by  gangs  of  men  and  women  from  the  small 
towns,  who  often  have  to  walk  several  miles  to  their  work. 
These  towns  are  all  built  on  the  hills  some  way  from  the  coast, 
along  which  still  stand  the  round  watch-towers  for  signalling 
the  approach  of  the  dreaded  corsairs.  It  seems  incredible 
that  until  Lord  Exmouth  destroyed  their  power  by  the  bom- 
bardment of  Algiers  in  18 16,  women,  young  boys,  and  girls 
were  carried  off  by  these  Algerian  pirates,  and  that  no  woman 
dared  go  near  the  seashore  on  that  Apulian  coast.  Brigandage 
was  rife  till  in  1862  a  regular  battle  was  fought  near  Taranto, 
when  twenty-six  brigands  were  killed,  and  eleven  shot  next 


2i6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

day  in  the  market-place.  After  that  the  Tarentine  gentlemen 
could  visit  their  masserie  without  the  fear  of  being  held  up 
for  ransom,  or  having  to  take  a  party  of  armed  men  to  protect 
them. 

We  were  often  reminded  of  Egypt  in  Apulia.  We  noticed  a 
short-handled,  very  bent  hoe,  rather  like  the  one  used  in  Egypt, 
while  earth  and  stones  were  carried  on  the  shoulder  in  small 
rush  baskets,  each  holding  about  twelve  handfuls,  exactly 
as  do  the  fellahs.  It  was  curious  to  see  the  oxen  return  at 
sundown  with  their  ploughs  tied  on  their  horns,  and  the  shafts, 
which  were  slender  bent  boughs  of  olive  or  ilex,  trailing  on 
either  side.  The  small  coulter,  roughly  shaped  with  a  hatchet, 
only  scratches  the  soil  when  the  man  leans  on  a  stick  which  he 
puts  in  a  hole  on  the  upper  part.  The  lithe  figures,  brilliant 
teeth,  dark  complexions  and  rather  blue  tinge  of  the  white 
of  the  eyes  of  the  people  near  Taranto  told  plainly  of  Saracen 
blood. 

I  made  friends  with  the  shepherd  lad,  who  must  have  walked 
many  miles  every  day  after  his  sheep — black  creatures  with 
bright  yellow  eyes  like  topazes — as  it  is  supposed  to  be  good 
for  their  health  to  keep  them  always  trotting.  Dressed  in 
a  goatskin  waistcoat  and  trousers  made  all  in  one  with  the  hair 
inside,  and  a  dark  brown  jacket  woven  from  the  fleeces  of 
his  flock,  he  would  grin  from  ear  to  ear  when  we  met.  Salute 
was  his  greeting,  state  vi  ben  (keep  well)  his  good-bye.  He 
played  melancholy  tunes  on  a  reed  pipe  and  was  immensely 
amused  when  with  some  difficulty  I  made  him  understand 
that  I  wanted  to  learn  how  to  play  it.  He  poured  out  a  torrent 
of  incomprehensible  patois,  shouting  ever  louder  when  I  did 
not  understand,  and  then  placed  my  fingers  on  the  holes  and 
blew  into  the  mouthpiece.  The  result  was  not  harmonious, 
and  he  exclaimed  Ma  tu  non  sacce  (but  thou  dost  not  know  how). 
Then  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that  some  of  his  sheep  were  in  the 
corn,  seized  a  few  stones  and  with  unerring  aim  hit  the  truants 
on  the  nose,  who  jumped  high  into  the  air.  Promising  to 
come  later  and  continue  the  lesson  he  disappeared  down  into  the 
gravina.  Somehow  I  never  mastered  the  intricacies  of  the 
pipe  of  Pan,  but  from  one  of  tl"^  ttanicr  (carters)  I  lea^at 


REMINISCENCES  217 

to  play  the  ghitarra  battente,  wildest  and  most  inspiriting   of 
instruments,  unknown  out  of  Southern  Italy, 

Our  advent  at  Leucaspide  caused  a  good  deal  of  curiosity, 
as  travellers,  particularly  women,  were  very  rarely  seen. 
From  the  loggia  we  used  to  watch  a  line  of  dust  rising  rapidly 
on  the  high  road  from  Taranto  and  knew  that  visitors  were 
coming.  A  Tarantine  visit  is  no  joke.  Men  and  women 
sat  and  sat,  sipped  coffee,  smiled  indulgently  when  I  admired 
the  gravina  and  the  flowers  and  showed  little  bits  of  Magnia 
Grecian  pottery  I  had  picked  up.  Did  we  not  find  it  rather 
dull  out  in  the  country  ?  Perhaps  though,  like  Sir  James, 
we  were  fond  of  reading.  When  dinner  was  announced 
our  visitors,  having  dined  early,  sat  in  a  row  behind  us,  generally 
talking  to  each  other.  At  first  it  was  rather  trying,  but  one 
got  used  to  feed  like  beasts  in  a  zoological  garden.  A  visit 
in  Apulia  lasts  from  three  to  five  hours,  sometimes  more, 
and  one  gets  to  the  end  of  one's  small  talk  long  before  the 
people  go.  One  evening  Sir  James  announced  that  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Taranto  was  coming  to  dinner  next  day,  having 
heard  that  an  illustre  scrittrice  was  staying  with  him.  "  That 
means  Monsignore  will  arrive  about  eleven  and  go  away 
late  at  night;  Ross,  you  had  better  go  a  long  walk  and  botanize, 
and  leave  Janet  to  tackle  the  clergy."  Unfortunately  our  dear 
host  woke  with  bronchitis,  so  Mr.  Ross  and  I  sat  on  the  loggia 
and  talked  with  the  Archbishop,  a  cultivated,  agreeable  and 
charming  man,  and  with  his  Vicario,  Monsignor  Rossi,  a 
jovial  and  musical  man  who  played  a  tarantella  with  great  go, 
claimed  cousinship  with  us  and  declared  that  in  future  he 
would  write  his  name  without  the  final  "  i,''  and  three 
priests  who  accompanied  him,  until  lunch  was  ready.  My 
husband  then  disappeared,  and  I  wondered  what  I  could 
do  to  amuse  our  guests  when  I  thought  of  the  siesta. 
"  Monsignore  looks  fatigued  with  the  long  and  dusty  drive," 
said  I,  "  and  repose  is  good  for  both  body  and  soul." 
He  acquiesced,  so  I  shut  him  up  in  one  room,  my  new-found 
cousin  in  another,  the  three  priests  in  a  third,  and  went  to 
tell  Sir  James  what  I  had  done,  and  ask  his  leave  to  make  the 
Archbishop  and  the  Vicario  plant  trees,  as  a  way  to  keep  them 


2i8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

occupied.  He  was  delighted  with  my  idea,  the  guardia 
was  summoned  and  told  to  prepare  two  holes  at  some  distance 
from  each  other,  and  two  young  olive  trees  with  good 
roots.  When  my  flock  emerged,  still  looking  sleepy,  I  said 
to  the  Archbishop,  with  my  sweetest  smile,  that  the  Senator 
begged  that  he  and  Monsignor  Rossi  would  do  him  the  honour 
to  plant  a  tree  each.  "  You  know  all  illustrious  persons, 
princes,  dukes,  statesmen,  etc.,  who  come  here  plant  a  tree 
according  to  our  EngHsh  custom,  and  who  is  there  more  il- 
lustrious than  yourself  at  Taranto  ?  "  Vit'  Anton,  the  guardia^ 
quite  understood  that  I  wanted  to  prolong  the  ceremony 
and  had  made  the  hole  for  the  Archbishop's  tree  at  some 
distance  from  the  house.  I  don't  think  Monsignore  was  used 
to  walk,  as  he  got  very  hot,  but  performed  the  planting  like 
a  man.  I  asked  him  to  bless  the  tree,  and  we  all  knelt  down, 
while  he  blessed  not  only  the  olive  tree,  but  the  masseria 
and  its  inhabitants,  including  the  foreign  guests.  The  hole 
for  Monsignor  Rossi's  tree  had  been  made  in  a  new  little 
garden  where  stone  had  been  excavated  for  building  some 
ten  feet  deep,  a  good  place  for  orange  trees  because  the  sea 
wind  cannot  burn  the  bloom.  Vit'  Anton  proposed  to  fetch 
a  ladder,  but  the  agile  little  Vicario  picked  up  his  long  skirts 
and  jumped  down,  disclosing  brand  new  black  and  white 
plaid  trousers.  "  How  well  you  jump,"  I  exclaimed,  "  and 
what  fine  trousers  those  are,  quite  the  latest  fashion."  "  Eh !  " 
he  answered;  "surely  we  of  the  Church  may  be  allowed  a 
little  vanity."  I  saw  the  Archbishop  looked  rather  grave, 
so  proposed  to  go  indoors  and  see  whether  Sir  James  had 
appeared.  After  dinner  the  cards  for  our  usual  game  of  scopa 
were  laid  out  (a  South  Italian  game  with  peculiar  cards), 
when  the  Archbishop  said  he  never  touched  cards  and  did  not 
allow  them  in  his  house.  How  to  amuse  him  and  prevent  Sir 
James  from  talking  too  much  was  a  serious  question.  Suddenly 
I  remembered  that  a  halma-board  had  been  put  into  my 
box,  and  with  some  solemnity  I  produced  it  and  said  to  Mon- 
signore :  "  This  is  a  new  game  from  England ;  it  might,  I  am 
sure,  be  played  even  by  the  Holy  Father,  as  I  am  informed 
our  Queen  patronizes  it."     "  Ah  !  if  such  an  admirable  and 


REMINISCENCES  219 

respectable  lady  plays  your  game  I  am  certain  it  must  be 
innocent  and  also  interesting,"  answered  Monsignore.  Halma 
was  an  immense  success.  I  taught  it  to  the  Archbishop  and 
to  my  "  cousin,"  while  the  three  minor  priests  sat  round 
gazing  with  rapt  attention  and  applauding,  particularly  when 
the  Archbishop  won.  At  last  the  clock  struck  ten  and  our 
visitors  rose  to  take  leave,  when  I  begged  Monsignore  to  accept 
the  game  of  Halma  as  a  souvenir  of  a  happy  evening.  I  heard 
long  afterwards  that  Halma  was  still  a  favourite  at  the  arch- 
bishopric in  Taranto. 

The  shepherd  had  told  me  a  wonderful  tale  about  an  ox 
which  long,  long  ago  disappeared  from  the  herd,  and  after 
days  of  searching  was  found  in  a  small  gravina,  kneeling 
inside  a  rock-hewn  chapel  before  a  picture  of  Our  Lady. 
"  It  is  true,"  he  said,  "  my  grandfather  told  me ;  besides,  the 
gravina  is  called  Mater  Gratia."  So  my  husband  and  I  sallied 
forth  to  find  the  place  and  failed.  Next  day  a  man  showed 
us  the  way.  Pushing  through  a  tangle  of  rosemary,  asphodel 
and  long  trails  of  ivy,  we  got  into  the  wild  dell  in  which  is  a 
good-sized  church  with  twelve  or  more  columns  standing 
in  front,  as  if  the  architect  had  intended  to  make  it  larger. 
We  wished  he  had  been  carried  off  by  brigands  before  partly 
destroying  and  cutting  into  the  ancient  rock-hewn  chapel, 
where  there  are  still  traces  of  painting  on  what  remains  of  the 
roof  and  walls.  Once  a  year  people  go  on  pilgrimage  to  the 
sanctuary  of  Mater  Gratia.  The  doors  of  the  church  and  of 
the  house  attached,  which  is  falling  to  ruin,  stood  wide  open  ; 
a  white  cloth  and  half-consumed  candles  in  brass  candle- 
sticks and  a  brass  plate  were  on  the  altar,  which  seemed  to 
me  to  speak  well  for  the  honesty  of  the  Apuhans.  The  little 
garden,  which  had  been  walled  round,  was  a  wilderness,  a 
few  kitchen  herbs  and  some  rose  bushes  showed  that  it  had 
once  been  cared  for.  The  only  living  creatures  were  big 
green  lizards,  and  a  hawk  hovering  high  above  ;  altogether 
the  place  was  decidedly  uncanny.  Opposite  the  church 
was  a  large  cavern  cut  out  of  the  rock,  divided  into  three 
compartments,  and  a  deepish  cistern  for  rain-water,  out  of 
which  I  fished  a  pretty  chestnut  and  green  frog. 


220  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

On  Good  Friday,  the  i  ith  April,  we  drove  to  Taranto  to  see 
the  procession  of  the  Mistert,  as  the  life-size  statues  made 
of  wood  or  of  papier-mache  are  called.  The  crowd  was  great 
in  the  narrow  streets,  but  most  good-humouredly  anxious 
that  "  the  foreigners  "  should  stand  in  front  and  see  well, 
and  when  I  asked  a  question  six  or  seven  people  answered  all 
together.  The  Tarantine  dialect  is  difficult  enough  to  under- 
stand when  spoken  slowly  and  distinctly  by  one  person,  so  I 
often  had  to  ask  again,  and  then  everybody  near  shouted  the 
answer  and  we  all  laughed.  The  municipal  band  came  first 
playing  a  funeral  march,  followed  by  a  large  black  flag  and  two 
barefooted  men  with  long  white  staves  in  their  hands.  They 
represented  the  Apostles  and  belonged  to  the  Confraternity 
of  the  Carmeliti.  The  first  Mistero,  a  platform  on  which 
were  the  instruments  of  the  Passion,  was  carried  by  four 
brothers  of  the  Addolorati,  in  white  cotton  robes  with  bare 
legs  and  feet.  The  second  was  a  statue  of  Christ  kneeling, 
with  extended  arms  and  uplifted  face.  Above  Him  hovered 
a  small  winged  angel  with  a  golden  cup  in  one  hand.  Two 
more  Apostles  walked  between  the  second  and  the  third 
Mistero,  which  was  really  horrible.  A  realistic  representation 
of  Our  Lord  tied  to  a  pillar — emaciated,  livid,  and  bleeding. 
The  men  who  carried  this  and  the  following  figures  wore 
crowns  of  thorns,  as  did  the  bearers'  attendants,  dressed  in 
their  best  clothes  and  each  carrying  a  strong,  short  staff, 
with  an  iron  crescent  on  the  top,  to  rest  the  poles  of  the  plat- 
forms upon.  The  weight  of  these  was  evidently  great,  the 
men  staggered  as  they  went  along,  and  their  shoulders  suffered, 
for  they  borrowed  handkerchiefs  from  friends  in  the  crowd 
to  bind  round  the  ends  of  the  poles.  The  fourth  Mistero 
was  a  figure  of  Our  Lord,  crowned  with  thorns,  in  a  long  red 
robe  and  with  tied  hands.  Then  came  the  crucifix,  which 
was  so  heavy  that  it  required  ten  bearers.  Some  of  the  women 
near  us  showed  signs  of  emotion  and  the  men  bared  their 
heads  as  a  large  bier,  borne  by  twenty  or  more  men,  came  in 
sight.  On  a  black  velvet  pall  lay  the  t^^y  of  Christ,  covered 
with  a  fine  muslin  veil  embroidered  with  gold  rosettes.  An 
Apostle   walked   at   each   corner   and   a    Cavaliere   di   Crista, 


REMINISCENCES  221 

a  Tarantine  nobleman  in  full  dress,  bareheaded  and  without 
boots,  walked  on  either  side.  They  looked  absurdly  modern 
and  rather  ashamed  of  themselves.  The  procession  ended 
with  a  figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  a  black  silk  dress,  holding 
a  heart  pierced  with  an  arrow  in  one  hand  and  an  embroidered 
handkerchief  in  the  other.  She  was  attended  by  the  last 
two  Apostles  and  a  crowd  of  clergy. 

I  was  told  that  the  privilege  of  carrying  the  Misteri  was 
eagerly  contested  at  auction  and  that  prices  ranged  from 
forty  to  fifty  francs.  This  seemed  to  me  a  large  price  to 
pay  for  having  a  bruised  shoulder  for  some  weeks.  Every 
church  in  Taranto  had  its  own  Confraternity  who  jealously 
watch  in  order  to  obtain  the  honour  of  supplying  the  Apostles, 
who  must  never  leave  their  places  by  the  side  of  the  Misteri, 
and  start  and  arrange  the  whole  procession.  The  Addolorati 
were  in  possession  till  six  years  before  our  visit,  when  during 
a  violent  storm  of  hail  four  of  the  poor  bare-legged  Apostles 
took  refuge  in  a  cafe.  The  Carmelites  rushed  in,  took  their 
places  and  have  held  the  privilege  for  their  church  ever  since. 
Some  small  boys  who  pushed  against  me  got  well  scolded,  and 
when  one  of  them  declared  he  had  done  so  in  order  to  find 
out  whether  I  was  a  man  (I  wore  a  felt  hat),  he  got  his  ears 
boxed  to  teach  him  the  difference  "  between  a  man  and  a 
princess."  The  fisherman  who  thus  defended  me  said  : 
"  You  must  forgive  this  fool,  he  is  ignorant.  Anyone  with 
knowledge  of  the  world  can  see  at  once  that  you  and  your 
companion  are  people  of  the  highest  distinction ;  besides,  you 
come  from  il  Commendatore.''^  When  people  in  that  part 
of  Apulia  talked  of  //  Commendatore,  one  knew  they  meant 
Sir  James ;  there  were  hundreds  of  Commendatore  about, 
but  he  was  the  one.  Popular  and  highly  respected,  friends 
of  his  were  sure  of  a  welcome  from  high  and  low  wherever 
they  went.  Being  with  him  was  a  liberal  education.  His 
memory  was  unfailing,  he  had  read  much,  and  he  had  known 
almost  everyone  worth  knowing  during  a  long  life.  To  all 
this  was  joined  a  kind  heart,  a  genial  manner,  a  remarkable 
insight  into  character,  and  a  strong  sense  of  fun  and  humour, 
which  made  him  the  most  delightful  of  companions. 


222  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

On  our  return  to  Castagnolo  I  found  everyone  busy  with 
silkworms.  The  price  of  cocoons  had  been  so  high  the  year 
before  that  the  fattore  had  bought  double  the  quantity  of 
eggs ;  they  had  hatched  out  well  and  all  available  rooms  were 
full  of  castelli.  A  castello  consists  of  four  square  pilasters 
of  wood,  six  feet  high,  with  holes  punched  through  them 
all  the  way  up  about  eight  inches  apart.  Movable  pegs,  fitted 
into  the  holes,  support  pairs  of  poles  on  which  are  laid  the 
stoje,  or  mats,  made  of  canes,  which  are  seven  feet  long  by 
five  feet  wide.  The  brief  life  of  a  silkworm  is  passed  in  eating 
for  a  week  and  then  sleeping  for  twenty-four  hours.  This 
he  repeats  four  times.  After  each  sleep  he  wriggles  his  head 
about  in  an  aimless  way,  rubs  his  mouth  against  the  stem  of 
a  leaf,  and  with  his  two  front  legs  and  after  great  efforts, 
tears  the  sheath  off  his  head  and  eyes  in  one  piece.  Then  he 
rests  and  looks  aimlessly  about  till  he  begins  to  creep  out 
of  the  old  skin  which  had  become  too  tight,  and  leaves  it 
behind  him  like  a  wrinkled  old  bag.  After  the  last  sleep, 
la  grossa  (the  big  one),  of  thirty-six  hours,  the  worms  wake  so 
hungry  that  they  must  be  fed  every  four  hours  both  night 
and  day.  Now  is  the  critical  time,  as  they  are  very  sensitive 
to  atmospheric  changes ;  cold  north  winds  stop  their  eating 
and  a  thunderstorm  may  kill  them.  The  evil  eye  is  also 
a  dreaded  enemy.  Roses  are  generally  stuck  here  and  there 
into  the  edge  of  the  stoje,  "  because  the  worms  like  the  smell  " 
you  will  be  told,  but  really  it  is  to  attract  notice  off  the  worms, 
and  strangers  are  requested  to  throw  them  a  handful  of  mul- 
berry leaves  "  against  the  evil  eye."  The  first  worm  which 
shows  a  desire  to  spin  is  put  upon  a  small  branch  of  olive  blessed 
by  the  priest.  The  amount  of  mulberry  leaves  which  are 
consumed  is  incredible,  and  the  poor  trees  in  the  plain  look 
most  woebegone  stretching  their  bare  boughs  and  twigs  up 
to  the  sky  as  though  to  protest  against  being  stripped 
bare. 

The  cocoons,  packed  in  large  baskets,  started  for  Pescia 
at  night  in  order  to  get  there  early  the  next  morning,  for  as 
the  old  fattore  said  :  Chi  e  frimo  al  mulino,  frimo  macina  (Who 


REMINISCENCES  223 

is  first  at  the  mill  has  his  corn  ground  first).  He  was  in  his 
element,  encouraging  or  gibing  at  the  men  in  old  proverbs. 
To  one  who  was  slow  in  loading  he  remarked  :  //  mondo  e  de^ 
solleciti  (The  world  belongs  to  the  quick  ones) ;  to  another  : 
Chi  dorme  non  -piglia  fesci  (He  who  sleeps  catches  no  fish). 

Part  of  the  summer  of  1884  I  spent  in  a  very  different 
country.  By  the  death  of  a  cousin  my  brother  succeeded 
to  Fyvie  Castle,  in  Aberdeenshire,  and  I  stayed  there  for  some 
weeks.  From  Edinburgh  I  went  to  Leith,  as  the  boat  for 
Aberdeen  left  very  early  in  the  morning.  Never  shall  I  forget 
that  night.  There  had  been  a  fair  and  ever^'body  was  drunk. 
My  Italian  maid  was  so  alarmed  by  the  shouts  and  screams 
in  the  hotel  that  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay  in  my  room, 
and  we  neither  of  us  slept.  At  four  in  the  morning  we  left, 
accompanied  by  a  small  boy,  the  only  sober  person  we  could 
find,  to  show  us  the  way  to  the  pier.  Shortly  after  our  start 
the  steamer  was  enveloped  in  a  dense  fog  ;  we  slowed  down  and 
at  last  stopped  altogether,  sirens,  hooters  and  whistles  making 
the  most  unearthly  noises  all  round  us.  "  What  a  terrible 
country,"  exclaimed  poor  Maria ;  "  we  shall  certainly  be 
killed."  At  last  we  arrived  at  Aberdeen  many  hours  late, 
too  late  for  the  last  train  to  Fyvie.  In  despair  I  went  to  the 
station-master,  a  civil,  helpful  man,  who  said  an  excursion 
train  was  just  starting,  and  that  he  would  order  it  to  stop  at 
Fyvie  for  me.  For  some  reason  this  exasperated  the  excur- 
sionists, who  greeted  me  with  a  storm  of  hisses,  groans  and 
curses,  as  I  got  out  of  the  train.  I  began  to  think  I  had  better 
have  stayed  in  Italy,  but  the  sight  of  the  towers  and  turrets 
of  the  castle  reminded  me  of  some  old  French  chateaux  and 
my  spirits  rose.  I  had  heard  so  much  of  the  various  traditions 
connected  with  Fyvie  that  I  was  keen  to  see  the  place  and 
hoped  to  meet  the  famous  Green  Lady,  with  her  fair  hair 
and  ropes  of  pearls,  some  night  on  the  great  staircase.  The 
weeping  stone,  which  occasionally  glistens  as  though  with 
tears,  and  half  fills  the  basin  in  which  it  is  kept  with  water, 
attracted  me  because  of  the  prophecy  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer  : — 


224  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

"  Fyvyii's  riggs  and  towers, 
Hapless  shall  ye  mesdanies  be, 

When  ye  shall  hae  within  yr.  methes  [boundary  stones] 
Frae  harryit  kirks  lands,  stanes  three  ; 
Ane  in  the  oldest  tower 
Ane  in  my  ladie's  bower 
And  ane  below  the  water-yett, 
And  it  ye  shall  never  get." 

This  is  supposed  to  refer  to  a  curse  on  the  Fyvie  estate, 
part  of  which  once  belonged  to  the  Church,  that  no  heir 
will  be  born  in  the  castle  and  that  it  will  not  descend  in  a 
straight  line  until  the  three  weeping  stones  are  found.  But 
the  object  of  my  ambition  was  to  open  the  secret  chamber. 
Tradition  affirms  that  it  contains  great  treasure,  but  that 
the  first  person  who  breaks  through  the  massive  walls  will 
fall  dead,  while  the  wife  of  the  laird  who  orders  search  to  be 
made  will  go  blind.  The  common  people  firmly  believe 
that  the  "  black  vomit,"  or  plague,  is  imprisoned  in  the 
dungeons,  and  no  Fyvie  man  would  lend  a  hand  with  crow- 
bar or  spade  for  any  sum  of  money.  I  had  half  persuaded 
my  brother  to  let  me  try,  but  his  wife  was  so  strongly  against 
it  that  reluctantly  I  had  to  give  up  the  idea.  It  was  known 
to  be  under  the  muniment-room  which  is  on  the  first  floor 
in  the  Meldrum  tower.  In  this  delightful  room,  panelled 
in  carved  oak  with  the  monogram  of  Chancellor  Dumferline 
twice  repeated,  and  the  arms  of  the  Gordons  on  the  vaulted 
stone  ceiling,  I  passed  many  hours  looking  through  the  mass 
of  charters.  A  huge  fireproof  cupboard  with  a  heavy  iron 
door  excited  my  curiosity,  the  key  of  which  was  found  after 
much  search.  This  opened  into  two  large  recesses,  and  in  the 
ceiling  of  the  one  to  the  right  I  saw  remains  of  steps  which 
had  been  broken  away.  These  probably  led  down  into  the 
secret  chamber,  which  some  suggested  was  in  communication 
with  an  underground  passage  to  the  little  river  Ythan  close 
by.  But  I  could  not  see  what  use  there  could  be  in  getting 
to  the  shallow  Ythan  in  times  of  danger.  The  great  depth 
of  wall  in  which  the  iron  safe  or  cupboard  stands  exists  also 
on  the  second  floor  where  the  Gordon  bedroom  (made  hideous 


REMINISCENCES  225 

by  being  hung  with  Gordon  tartan)  and  dressing-room  are. 
The  latter  is  above  the  muniment-room,  and  in  the  passage 
between  it  and  the  bedroom  the  panelHng  sounds  hollow 
on  the  w^estern  side.  This  room  has  an  evil  reputation. 
People  tell  of  strange  noises ;  some  even  declare  that  they 
have  been  awakened  by  a  cold  hand  on  their  forehead,  and  as 
they  started  up  heard  hurried  footsteps  and  stifled  shrieks. 
During  the  last  illness  of  my  cousin,  Captain  Gordon,  he  was 
moved  from  the  Gordon  room  into  one  near  by ;  partly 
because  it  was  more  cheerful,  partly  because  of  the  tradition 
that  every  laird  who  died  at  Fyvie  must  die  in  the  Gordon 
room.  Mrs.  Gordon  was  called  away  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
on  returning,  to  her  terror,  found  bed  and  room  empty.  She 
called,  servants  came  running,  and  the  laird  was  found  in  a 
fainting  condition  in  the  fateful  room.  When  he  recovered 
consciousness  he  told  his  wife  that  as  she  left  the  room  the 
Green  Lady  glided  in  and  beckoned  to  him.  Feeling  forced 
to  obey  her  he  staggered  out  of  bed  and  along  the  corridor, 
and  followed  her  into  the  Gordon  room  which  seemed  to  be 
lit  up  by  her  presence.  As  she  vanished  the  room  became  dark. 
Poor  Captain  Gordon  died  shortly  afterwards  (1884).  I 
did  my  best  to  meet  the  ghostly  lady  by  lingering  on  the  great 
spiral  staircase  at  midnight,  down  w^hich  she  is  said  to  float 
trailing  her  green  satin  robes  behind  her.  But  I  saw  nothing, 
and  only  heard  the  squeaking  of  the  vanes,  which  sadly  needed 
oiling,  on  windy  nights.  I  ought  to  add  that  I  do  not  believe 
in  ghosts. 

In  old  days  Fyvie  Castle  must  have  been  an  almost  im- 
pregnable stronghold.  The  river  Ythan  defended  it  on  two 
sides,  and  on  the  other  a  morass,  not  drained  till  1770,  barred 
approach.  Its  walls  are  from  seven  to  eleven  feet  thick  and 
one  of  its  towers  has  seven  stories.  The  place  had  a  long  history 
ere  it  came  into  the  hands  of  the  Gordons.  In  1296  its  lord, 
Reginald  Le  Cheyne,  entertained  Edward  I  of  England  during 
that  King's  hasty  march  through  Aberdeenshire.  Thereafter 
it  became  the  property  of  the  Crown,  of  the  Lindesays,  the 
Prestons,  the  Meldrums  and  the  Setons.  Additions  to  the 
castle,    the   Preston,    the    Meldrum    and   the    Seton    towers, 

Q 


226  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

mark  the  succession.  The  last-named  was  built  by  that 
Seton  who  was  Chancellor  under  James  VI,  and  created  Earl 
o£  Dunfermline,  as  was  the  magnificent  staircase  twenty- 
four  feet  wide,  which  circles  round  a  massive  pillar  or  newel. 
The  whole  edifice  shows  traces  of  the  influence  of  French 
architects  and  bears  a  marked  resemblance  to  the  Chateau 
de  Montsabert  on  the  Loire.  All  its  towers,  including  the 
later  Gordon  tower,  are  turreted,  and  every  turret  is  crowned 
by  a  rude  sandstone  figure.  The  one  facing  the  old  mill  of 
Tifty  is  that  of  Andrew  Lammie,  the  Trumpeter  of  Fyvie, 
whose  sad  story  is  told  in  a  ballad  which  used  to  be  acted  at 
rustic  meetings  in  Aberdeenshire.  His  love,  Bonnie  Annie, 
done  to  death  by  a  cruel  brother,  lies  in  Fyvie  churchyard. 
There  are  also  buried  the  Gordons  of  Gight,  the  last  of  whom, 
Catherine,  was  the  mother  of  Lord  Byron.  When  Miss  Gordon 
married  the  Hon.  John  Byron,  a  local  bard  wrote  a  pro- 
phetic ballad,  the  first  verse  of  which  runs  : — 

"  O  whare  are  you  gaeing,  bonny  Miss  Gordon  ? 
O  whare  are  you  gaeing,  sae  bonnie  and  braw  ? 
Ye've  married  wi'  Johnny  Byron 
To  squander  the  lands  o'  Gight  awa'." 

James,  the  fourth  Earl  of  Dunfermline,  who  followed 
James  II  (VII  of  Scotland)  to  St.  Germain,  was  outlawed 
and  his  estates  were  confiscated  by  Parliament  in  1690.  The 
Earl  of  Aberdeen  bought  them  from  the  Crown  in  1726 
and  they  were  settled  on  his  third  wife,  Anne,  daughter  of 
the  Duke  of  Gordon,  and  her  children.  From  her  third  son, 
Alexander,  one  of  the  handsomest  and  tallest  men  of  his  day, 
we  are  descended.  Often  when  riding  in  the  picturesque 
Den  I  pictured  to  myself  the  scene  when  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land and  his  army  marched  through  on  his  way  north  before 
the  battle  of  Culloden.  The  widowed  Countess  was  standing 
by  the  roadside  with  her  little  son  and  the  Duke  asked  who 
she  was.  "  I  am  the  sister  of  Lord  Lewis  Gordon,"  was  the 
proud  reply.  "  I  hope  your  boy  may  become  as  strong  and 
valued  a  supporter  of  the  House  of  Hanover  as  your  brother 
is  of  the  House  of  Stewart,"  he  answered.    The  "  Cock  of  the 


REMINISCENCES  227 

North,"  as  the  Duke  of  Perth  called  Lord  Lewis,  stayed  with 
his  sister  at  Fyvie  in  December,  1745  ;  he  was  the  hero  of  the 
popular  ballad  beginning  : 

"  Oh  send  me  Lewie  Gordon  hame 
And  the  lad  I  daurna  name." 

Though  the  park  and  the  above-mentioned  Den  were 
beautiful,  the  country  round  Fyvie  was  ugly,  and  after  the 
pleasant  smiles  and  kindly  greetings  I  was  used  to  in  Italy  the 
people  struck  me  as  singularly  hard  and  ill-mannered.  They 
seemed  to  resent  being  wished  good  day,  and  I  do  not  beheve 
they  knew  how  to  smile.  The  weather  was  not  pleasanter  than 
the  people,  so  I  took  refuge  in  the  muniment-room  and  the 
library,  and  wrote  a  little  account  of  Fyvie  Castle  and  its 
lairds,  of  which  one  hundred  copies  were  printed  for  private 
circulation. 

On  my  way  back  to  Italy  I  went  with  Mrs.  Higford  Burr 
to  Aix-les-Bains,  where  she  was  to  take  the  baths.  At  table 
d'hote  I  sat  next  to  a  very  attractive  w^oman,  and  we  began 
to  talk.  A  man,  evidently  her  husband,  sitting  by  her,  joined 
in,  and  I  happened  to  mention  acacia  trees.  With  a  funny 
little  laugh  which  sounded  rather  supercilious  he  said  he 
supposed  I  meant  robinias.  "  I  never  heard  of  robinias," 
I  replied  ;  "  I  mean  acacias,  and,  as  I  saw  once  in  spring, 
their  flowers  here  are  of  a  delicate  pink  instead  of  white." 
"  Pardon  me,  those  are  not  acacias,  they  are  robinias,"  he 
insisted.  I  answered  by  the  monosyllable  "  Oh  !  "  and  that 
was  the  beginning  of  a  lifelong  friendship.  Dr.  E.  Perceval 
Wright  and  his  wife  had  both  been  injured  in  a  carriage 
accident  in  Switzerland,  which  rendered  him  lame  for  life  and 
caused  her  death  a  year  or  so  after  I  met  them  at  Aix-les-Bains. 
When  I  found  out  that  he  held  the  chair  of  botany  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  I  begged  his  pardon  about  the  robinias, 
but  in  after  years  often  made  him  cross  by  forgetting  the 
proper  name  and  calling  them  acacias.  Though  rather 
peppery  and  obstinate  he  was  really  the  gentlest  and  kindest 
of  men,  as  I  discovered  when  a  few  days  later  I  got  an  attack 
of  bronchitis  and  he  nursed  me  well  again.     He  was  a  doctor 


228  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

as  well  as  a  botanist,  and  on  my  recovery  told  me  I  had  better 
go  back  to  Italy  out  of  the  damp  of  Aix-les-Bains.  After 
his  wife's  death  Dr.  Wright  never  let  a  year  pass  without  pay- 
ing us  a  visit.  He  and  my  husband  had  not  only  a  common 
interest  in  plants  and  flowers,  but  also  in  politics.  Both  were 
Radicals,  and  sometimes  made  me  rather  angry. 

During  the  winter  Carlo  Orsi  did  a  water-colour  head  of 
me,  of  which  I  sent  a  photograph  to  various  friends,  among 
others,  to  Sir  Frederick  Burton,  who  answered  : — 


Sir  Frederick  Burton  to  Janet  Ross. 

43  Argyll  Road,  Kensington,  January  13,   1885. 

"  My  dear  Friend, 

Accept  all  my  kindest  wishes  for  the  New  Year  and 
for  the  future,  and  at  the  same  time  forgive  me  for  leaving 
you  so  long  without  a  w^ord  from  me.  I  did,  of  course,  receive 
*  your  head  ' — not  on  a  charger — but  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
and  was  grateful  to  the  warm-hearted  owner  who  thought 
of  sending  it  to  me.  If  it  is  not  all  I  could  have  wished, 
that  is  not  her  fault,  but  due  to  nature,  who  put  something 
into  the  original  that  artists  somehow  don't  seem  to  have  the 
power  to  reproduce.  It  is  like,  no  doubt — in  a  way — but  not 
in  the  way  that  pleases  me  quite.  In  short,  it  is  Janet,  with 
the  part  of  Janet  left  out.  But  I  am  glad  to  have  it  all  the 
same.    I  can  fill  up  the  deficit  from  memory. 

Is  the  blessed  sun  to  be  seen  at  Florence  ?  Here  not  at  all. 
Oh  1  the  sickening  black  pall  that  excludes  every  ray  of  hght, 
with  just  now  and  then  a  watery  livid  gleam  of  something 
the  colour  of  a  frost-bitten  orange ;  w^hich,  if  it  only  lasted 
an  hour  or  two,  would  be  a  welcome  change. 

Poor  Dicky  Doyle's  works  at  the  Grosvenor  are  delightful. 
Although  to  see  them  mingles  pleasure  with  deep  sadness  for 
his  loss.  Never  in  any  man's  work  did  the  genial  spirit  of  the 
man  himself  more  strongly  reveal  itself.  Such  true  comedy, 
without  one  taint  of  cynicism.  Such  exuberant  fancy  without 
vulgarity.      Such   sympathy  with   his   kind.     And   far   more 


REMINISCENCES  229 

than   fancy  ;   for   I   see   true   imagination   in   many  of   these 
drawings,  as  true  as  it  is  original.    Kind  regards  to  all. 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Frederick  Burton." 

As  soon  as  the  little  book  about  Fyvie  Castle  was  printed 
I  sent  a  copy  to  Eothen,  and  was  heartily  ashamed  at  the  slip 
of  my  pen,  which  he  laughs  at  in  the  following  letter  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 
28  Hyde  Park  Place,  Marble  Arch,  VV., 

"  My  dearest  Janet,  /"  ^      '        5- 

Since  Tuesday  (when  I  heard  from  our  friend  Miss 
North  of  what,  I  fear,  is  only  too  true)  I  have  been  '  pitying 
myself,'  as  they  say  in  the  Cumberland  country,  for  the 
privation  inflicted  upon  me  by  the  fate  which  prevents  your 
coming  to  England  this  year,  and  now  your  kind  present, 
Fyvie  Castle  and  Its  Lands,  invites  me  in  the  midst  of  my 
thanks  to  say  how  sorry  I  am — of  course  in  the  most  selfish 
way — for  the  prospect  of  being  left  all  this  summer  without 
that  burst  of  new  Ufe  which  comes  into  my  world  at  the 
sight  of  dear  Janet  and  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

I   think  your  little  record  of  Fyvie  is  capitally  managed 

in  all  respects,  and  though  necessarily  dealing  with  pedigrees, 

is — to  me  at  least — very  attractive.     The  introduction  of  the 

Ballads  was  a  very  happy  thought.     They  surround  the  old 

stones  with  human  interests.    Then,  of  course,  your  pure  style 

of  writing — your  inherited  style  of  which  I  have  often  spoken 

— gives  perfectness  of  its  kind  to  the  volume.    I  see  one  word 

which,  I  suppose,  must  have  grown  to  be  right,  since  you  use 

it — the  word  '  over  '  instead  of  '  more  than  '  at  the  foot  of 

p.     33.      Is  that  accident,  or  do  you  really  decree  that  (in 

obedience  to  the  Americans  and  the  newspapers)  the  word 

'  over  '  in  this  sense  must  at  last  be  accepted  ? 

My  dear,  dearest  Janet, 

Your  affectionate 

A.  W.  Kinglake." 


230  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

For  some  time  I  had  been  thinking  of  making  a  selection 
for  pubHcation  among  letters  my  father  had  given  me,  chiefly 
to  Mrs.  Austin.  Becoming  interested  in  the  work  I  determined 
to  collect  what  information  I  could  about  the  Taylors  of 
Norwich,  and  my  grandmother's  and  my  mother's  early  life. 
I  wrote  to  Henry  Reeve,  one  of  the  few  who  could  recollect 
my  great-grandmother,  Mrs.  Taylor,  and  who  knew  my 
grandmother,  Mrs.  Austin,  as  a  young  woman.  His  answer  is 
characteristic.  It  is  the  Great  Henry  with  his  chin  stuck 
high  in  the  air,  extremely  patronizing,  crushing  me  with  his 
superior  knowledge  and  not  offering  me  the  help  on  which  I 
rather  counted.  I  ought,  however,  to  add  that  afterwards  my 
cousin,  of  whom  I  really  was  very  fond,  made  ample  amends  for 
his  snubbing  by  most  generous  praise  of  the  book. 


Henry  Reeve  to  Janet  Ross. 

62  Rutland  Gate,  London,  January  14,  1886. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  should  say  your  proposed  work  would  be  interesting 
if  you  had  the  necessary  materials  ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that 
you  have  any  knowledge  of  the  life  at  St.  George's — of  the 
Whig  and  Presbyterian  Party  in  Norfolk  eighty  years  ago — 
of  the  Octagon  Chapel — of  Dr.  Parr,  Mr.  Homes,  Sir  J. 
Macintosh,  Mr.  Windham,  Basil  Montague,  and  others  of 
that  date — or  of  the  W.  Taylors,  the  Traffords,  the  Smiths, 
the  Houghtons,  the  Barbaulds,  the  Woodhouses,  the  Alder- 
sons,  Bishops,  Bathursts,  and  other  members  of  the  Norwich 
society.  Unless  you  have  access  to  all  this  you  can  make 
nothing  of  the  life  of  your  great-grandmother. 

I  also  think  you  know  nothing  of  the  life  of  the  Austins 
in  Queen  Square,  with  the  Mills  and  all  that  set,  and  Santa 
Rosa,  S.  Marsan  and  others  who  congregated  there  after  1821. 
Their  life  in  South  Bank  you  may  be  better  acquainted  with, 
for  that  brings  the  BuUers,  Stirlings,  Carlyles,  Romilly  and 
Tookes  on  to  the  scene,  and  Hayward.    All  this  is  essential. 


REMINISCENCES  231 

You  must  recollect  that  these  three  Memoirs  embrace  about 
one  hundred  years  of  literary  and  social  life,  much  of  it  in  the 
provinces — indeed,  it  may  be  traced  further  back  to  the 
Commonwealth.  The  Taylor  family  and  their  forbears 
always  belonged  to  the  Presbyterian  party,  and  I  can  myself 
remember  that  they  disliked  the  Independents  as  much  as 
the  Tories.  It  requires  to  have  lived  among  all  these  people 
and  things  to  describe  them. 

Yours  affectionately, 

H.  Reeve." 


CHAPTER    XIV 

IN  the  early  spring  of  1886  I  spent  several  weeks  at  Leucas- 
pide  in  most  excellent  company.  Mr.  Theo  Marzials, 
whose  acquaintance  I  made  in  Florence,  went  with  me 
and  provided  music  and  quaint  humour.  We  found  there 
Sir  Charles  Cliiford,  handsome,  courteous,  and  learned,  as 
became  a  Fellow  of  All  Souls,  who  told  anecdotes  against  our 
dear  host  Sir  James,  and  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles  Newton, 
who  superintended  the  excavation  of  a  tomb  close  to  the  house. 
With  much  solemnity,  in  a  speech  of  which  I  understood 
nothing  as  it  was  in  Greek,  he  presented  me  with  the  small 
terra-cotta  jar  which  was  the  only  thing  that  had  been  found. 
Hamilton  Aide  joined  our  party  and  made  many  sketches  of  the 
big  olive  trees  and  the  old  churches.  He  won  the  hearts  of  the 
Tarantine  visitors  by  the  charm  of  his  manners  and  the  elegance 
of  his  clothes.  For  years  afterwards  he  was  remembered  as 
that  Englishman  who  dressed  in  grey  satin,  because  of  a  shiny 
grey  waterproof  coat  he  wore.  Our  expedition  to  Metaponto, 
where  Newton  wanted  to  see  the  ruins,  I  shall  never  forget. 
To  catch  the  early  train  from  Taranto  we  had  to  leave  Leucas- 
pide  at  four  in  the  morning,  very  sleepy  and  some  of  us  rather 
cross,  as  people  are  apt  to  be  at  that  early  hour.  Sir  James 
did  not  come,  but  being  a  director  of  the  South  Italian  railways, 
armed  me  with  a  letter  to  the  station-master  at  Metaponto 
requesting  him  to  help  us.  We  should  never  have  got  to  the 
old  temples  without  this.  Across  a  very  high  two-wheeled 
cart  without  any  springs,  drawn  by  buffaloes,  the  kind  man 
tied  two  planks,  on  which  he  put  some  cushions  from  a  railway 
carriage.  We  climbed  with  some  difficulty  up  the  wheels, 
and  then  holding  on  as  best  we  could,  slowly  jolted  over  the 
bare  tract  of  land,  often  sinking  deep  in  slush  and  tilting  from 

232 


REMINISCENCES  233 

one  side  to  the  other  in  alarming  fashion.  But  the  sight  of  the 
fifteen  great  columns,  all  that  remains  of  the  temple,  repaid 
us.  It  was  only  spoiled  by  the  high  wall  built  round  to  prevent 
further  destruction.  Not  far  oif  stood  another  large  temple, 
discovered  and  partially  excavated  by  the  Due  de  Luynes 
in  1828.  Buried  in  mud  and  slush,  it  serves  as  a  quarry  for  the 
country  round.  Seeing  part  of  a  face  lying  in  the  water 
close  to  what  seemed  a  green  mound  of  firm  earth,  I  jumped, 
went  over  my  ankles  in  horrible  black  mud,  but  got  a  beautiful 
antefix.  They  all  declared  I  was  very  silly,  that  I  should  have 
fever  and  probably  die,  etc.  etc.,  all  of  which  I  attributed 
to  jealousy.  When  we  got  back  the  station-master  lent  me  a 
pair  of  shoes,  and  we  had  supper  in  the  primitive  restaurant 
while  waiting  for  the  luggage  train  to  which  a  carriage  was  to 
be  attached  for  us.  We  did  not  reach  Taranto  till  midnight. 
Some  miles  from  Leucaspide  on  a  hill-side  is  the  village 
of  Statte,  to  which  we  went  to  see  the  enormous  cistern  and 
the  aqueduct  which  supplies  Taranto  with  excellent  water. 
Many  of  the  inhabitants  still  live  in  the  rock-cut  houses  of  the 
ancient  dwellers  in  Magna  Grecia.  To  some  an  entrance  porch 
had  been  built  where  the  women  sat  spinning  cotton,  which 
is  much  grown  about  there,  or  weaving  felp a,  a  sort  of  corduroy 
made  of  cotton.  The  larger  caves,  for  that  is  what  these  houses 
are,  contained  three  or  even  four  rooms,  shared  with  goats  and 
fowls,  A  few  of  the  families  had  bedsteads  instead  of  sleeping 
on  the  old  seats  cut  out  of  the  rock  by  the  ancient  cave- 
dwellers.  Tradition  says  the  aqueduct  was  made  by  the 
wizard  Virgil  (for  the  great  Latin  poet  has  been  transformed 
into  a  wizard  in  mediaeval  legend)  when  disputing  with  the 
witches  for  the  dominion  of  Taranto.  It  is  a  wonderful  work  ; 
a  tunnel  four  feet  high  and  two  feet  four  inches  wide  runs 
through  the  rock  for  four  miles,  its  course  being  marked  here 
and  there  by  air-holes.  When  it  reaches  the  level  ground 
the  aqueduct  is  supported  by  two  hundred  and  three  arches 
of  comparatively  modern  construction.  In  the  night  the 
witches  found  out  what  Virgil  was  doing  and  hastily  began  to 
build  the  aqueduct  of  Saturo,  but  dawn  broke  ere  they  had 
half  finished,  and  when  they  heard  the  joyous  shouts  of  the 


234  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Tarentines  acclaiming  Virgil  and  the  clear,  pure  water  flowing 
into  the  city,  the  witches  fled  shrieking  to  Benevento  and  left 
their  aqueduct  in  ruins,  as  can  be  seen  at  the  present  day. 
Thanks  to  Virgil,  Taranto  is  one  of  the  few  cities  in  Apulia 
that  is  well  supplied  with  water.  There  are  no  rivers  and  but 
few  springs  in  that  thirsty  land.  In  a  dry  summer  at  Foggia 
water  costs  more  than  wine ;  it  is  brought  by  train,  and  the 
station  is  besieged  by  people  with  pails,  jugs,  basins,  and  bottles, 
who  buy  it  by  the  litre. 

Before  leaving  Leucaspide  we  were  all  invited  by  Don 
Eugenio  Arno,  Sir  James's  nephew,  to  come  to  Manduria. 
I  had  long  wished  to  see  the  place  where  our  dear  host  was  born 
and  began  his  education  with  the  priest  Don  Michele  Amoroso 
— such  a  delightful  name.  The  padre's  sister  wove  cotton 
corduroy  and  Sir  James  and  his  half-brother  had  to  throw 
the  shuttles.  Good  marks  for  learning  depended  on  the  amount 
of  stuff  woven  in  the  day.  We  started  very  early  by  train  for 
Oria,  once  an  important  city,  through  which  passed  the  Via 
Appia  leading  from  Tarentum  to  Brundusium.  The  castle, 
with  a  huge  square  tower  and  two  tall  round  ones  standing 
on  the  top  of  the  highest  of  the  two  hills  on  which  the  town  is 
built,  is  in  outline  rather  like  Windsor  Castle.  Surrounded 
by  a  double  line  of  walls  with  forty-five  smaller  towers,  it  stood 
up  proudly  against  the  sky.  An  Orian  friend  of  Don  Eugenio 
met  us  at  the  station  and  was  delighted  at  our  admiration. 
He  informed  us  that  Oria  was  two  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  ninety-five  years  old,  having  been  founded  by  the  Cretans 
three  generations  before  the  siege  of  Troy.  A  generation 
might  be  calculated  as  thirty  years  ;  so  as  Troy  was  burnt 
nine  hundred  and  seventeen  yeats  B.C.,  if  you  add  ninety  to 
nine  hundred  and  seventeen  years  it  was  clear  that  the  city 
was  founded  one  thousand  and  seven  years  b.c.  Turning  to 
Sir  Charles  Clifford,  who  was  evidently  a  good  deal  more  than 
thirty,  he  added  that  many  people  thought  a  generation  would 
be  much  more  than  thirty  years,  in  which  case  the  foundation 
of  Oria  was  so  ancient  that  it  might  be  called  fabulous.  I 
afterwards  found  out  that  all  his  learning  was  taken  from  an 
old  book  Delia  Fortuna  di  Oria,  printed  in  1775,  only  our  friend 


REMINISCENCES  235 

had  added  on  one  hundred  and  thirteen  years  to  bring  his 
calculation  up  to  date. 

A  diligence  on  very  tall  wheels,  painted  bright  yellow  and 
with  the  motto  Ulnvidia  crept  e  la  Fortuna  trionfi  (Let  envy 
perish  and  Fortune  triumph)  written  on  the  back,  took  us 
quickly  along  the  six  miles  of  straight  road  to  Manduria.  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  remains  of  the  great  Messapian 
double  walls  which  surrounded  the  old  city,  and  held  Fabius 
Maximus  at  bay  for  some  time  in  209  B.C.  In  one  corner  of 
them  nestles  the  modern,  clean,  and  very  Oriental-looking 
Manduria.  The  famous  well  described  by  Pliny  is  quite  half 
a  mile  distant,  near  the  ancient  walls.  At  the  bottom  of  a 
circular  cavern  into  which  we  descended  by  thirty  rough-hewn 
winding  steps  were  some  peasants  filling  their  pitchers,  and  to 
my  surprise  one  of  them  in  offering  us  his  mug  said  :  "  You 
of  course  who  can  read  know  what  Ovid  {sic]  writes  of  our 
well  ?  Ne  que  crescit,  ne  decrescit.''^  The  Mandurians  are  very 
proud  of  it  and  declare  that  the  level  of  the  water  never  alters. 
How  I  longed  to  dig  for  the  wonderful  golden  hen  with 
twelve  gold  chicks  said  to  be  buried  near  by,  which  will  bring 
great  good  fortune  to  the  finder.  But  to  discover  them  you 
must  cut  the  throat  of  a  five-year-old  child  in  the  cavern, 
or  a  pregnant  woman  must  stand  by  while  you  dig,  clasping  a 
serpent  to  her  bare  breast.  When  the  treasure  is  found  the 
serpent  will  disappear. 

We  lunched  at  Don  Eugenio's  house  and  with  some  diflftculty 
I  induced  him  to  tell  me  about  tarantismo.  He  would  not 
mention  it  at  Leucaspide  because  Sir  James  laughed  at  him 
one  day,  saying  : — 

*'  Non  fu  tarant^  ne  fu  tarantella 
Ma  fu  lo  vino  de  la  caratella." 

(It  was  not  taranta  nor  was  it  tarantella,  But  the  wine  of 
the  cask.) 

Don  Eugenio  explained  that  there  is  wet  and  dry  tarantismo^ 
and  the  insects  which  are  said  to  cause  it  are  of  different 
species  and  different  colours.  Women  working  in  the  corn- 
fields are  most  liable  to  be  bitten,  as  they  wear  little  clothing 


236  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

on  account  of  the  intense  heat.  The  illness  begins  with  violent 
fever  and  the  person  bitten  rocks  backwards  and  forwards 
moaning  aloud.  Musicians  are  called  and  play  different  tunes 
until  one  pleases  the  tarantata.  He  or  she  then  springs  up  and 
dances  frantically.  If  the  dancer  has  dry  taranttsmo  her  friends 
try  to  discover  the  colour  of  the  tarantola  that  has  bitten  her 
and  tie  bits  of  ribbon  of  that  colour  about  her  dress.  If  they 
cannot,  ribbons  of  all  colours  are  used.  In  a  case  of  wet 
taraniismo  the  musicians  sit  near  a  well  to  which  the  tarantata 
is  attracted,  and  while  she  is  dancing  friends  pour  buckets 
of  water  over  her.  "  The  lot  of  precious  water  used,"  observed 
Don  Eugenio  feelingly,  "  is  terrible." 

Superstition  is  of  course  rife  among  the  uneducated  popu- 
lation of  Southern  Italy.  Signor  Gigli,  a  clever  young 
Mandurian  gentleman  who  has  since  written  about  his  native 
province,  told  me  various  bits  of  folk-lore.  If  you  dream  of 
shoes,  something  fortunate  will  happen ;  if  of  a  white  horse, 
expect  bad  news  ;  if  of  a  carriage  and  horses,  you  will  inherit 
a  fortune.  No  woman  who  loves  her  husband  will  brush  her 
hair  on  a  Friday,  it  would  bring  about  his  death  ;  but  if  you 
are  born  on  a  Friday  in  March  no  witchcraft  can  touch  you. 
These  beliefs  are  probably  widely  distributed,  but  one  may 
be  indigenous  to  Manduria,  as  it  mentions  a  grotto,  or  cavern. 
When  there  are  signs  of  an  approaching  storm  a  child  under 
seven  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  street  with  three  small  bits 
of  bread  in  its  hands.  One  piece  it  throws  in  front,  one  to  the 
right,  and  one  to  the  left,  saying  :— 

"  Oziti,  San  Giunni,  e  no  durmiri, 
Ca  sta  vesciu  tre  nubi  viniri  ; 
Una  d'acqua,  una  di  jentu,  unadi  malitiempu  ; 
Do  lu  portamu  stu  malitiempu  ? 
Sott'  a  na  grotta  scura. 
Do  no  canta  jaddu  ; 
Do  no  luci  luna, 
Cu  no  fazza  mali  a  me,  e  a  nudda  criatura." 

(Arise,  St  John,  and  do  not  sleep,  For  I  see  three  clouds 
coming  ;  One  of  rain,  one  of  wind,  and  one  of  evil  weather  ; 
Where  shall  we  take  this  evil  weather  ?     Into  a  dark  grotto. 


REMINISCENCES  237 

Where  no  cock  crows  ;    Where  no  moon  shines  ;    So  that  it 
shall  do  no  harm  to  me,  or  to  any  creature.) 

Soon  after  I  got  back  to  Castagnolo  my  cousins,  Sir  William 
and  Lady  Markby,  came  to  stay  with  us,  and  I  "  personally 
conducted  "  a  rather  heterogeneous  party  to  San  Gimignano 
and  Volterra — the  Provost  of  Oriel,  his  brother  Mr.  Monro, 
and  Theo  Marzials,  who  came  from  Florence  and  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  come.  At  San  Gimignano  we  more  than  filled 
the  primitive  little  inn,  now  no  longer  in  existence,  so  Marzials 
was  sent  out  to  sleep  in  the  palazzo  of  a  countess  who  had  known 
better  days,  while  the  son  of  the  landlady,  w^ho  was  the  waiter, 
gave  up  his  own  room  to  me.  In  the  evening  we  hired  the 
municipal  box  at  the  theatre  for  four  francs,  and  saw  the  Maitre 
des  Forges  very  well  acted.  When  the  principal  actress  appeared 
Marzials  declared  he  had  seen  her  before,  and  going  behind  the 
scenes,  found  out  she  had  acted  Desdemona  with  Salvini  in 
London.  As  we  strolled  about  the  beautiful  old-world  city 
next  morning  a  pretty  boy,  about  nine  years  old,  followed  us, 
and  at  last  shyly  sidling  up  to  the  Provost  took  his  hand  and 
asked  whether  he  might  come  with  him.  I  told  Monro  this 
was  a  homage  to  his  chimney-pot  hat,  which  he  evidently  could 
not  live  without,  for  when  I  asked  him  why  he  had  chosen 
such  a  head-gear  for  coming  to  San  Gimignano  he  answered  : 
"  Well,  one  never  knows,  we  might  have  to  pay  a  visit."  All 
day  the  small  boy  clung  to  Monro  listening  attentively  to 
the  explanations  of  the  guide.  When  we  sat  down  to  rest 
outside  the  walls  near  San  Jacopo,  the  ancient  church  of  the 
Knights  Templar,  he  pulled  a  dilapidated  old  purse  out  of  his 
pocket  and  took  out  a  fragment  of  a  small  brass  chain.  This 
he  gravely  put  into  the  Provost's  hand,  saying  :  Tiene  questo 
-per  un  mio  ricordo  (Take  this  in  memory  of  me),  and  turned 
to  go.  Monro  called  him  back,  fumbled  in  his  pockets, 
and  produced  a  silver  pencil-case,  which  he  begged  the  child 
to  accept  in  exchange.  The  boy's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he 
looked  longingly  at  it,  but  he  said :  "  No,  thank  you.  I  am 
sorry  you  think  I  want  a  present  in  exchange.  I  shall  never 
forget  you."  Turning  to  me,  the  Provost  asked  me  to  induce 
the  boy   to  take  the  pencil-case,  which   at  last  after  much 


238  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

persuasion  I  accomplished.  We  afterwards  heard  he  was  the 
son  of  the  principal  actress.  Next  morning  we  were  to  start 
at  ten  o'clock  for  Volterra,  but  no  Marzials  appeared.  So  I 
despatched  the  others  in  the  big  carriage  with  two  horses, 
and  walked  down  the  street  to  the  Comtessa's  house.  In  vain 
I  knocked,  and  at  last  I  shouted  Marzials,  Marzials,  when  a 
plaintive  voice  replied  :  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Ross,  do  come  in  and  de- 
liver me  from  the  decayed  Countess."  The  street  door 
ceded  to  a  vigorous  push,  and  opening  a  door  to  the  right  I 
found  an  old,  old  lady,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  Marzial's  bed  and 
volubly  pouring  out  her  life's  history  into  his  unwilling  ears. 
With  some  difficulty  I  lured  her  out  of  the  room,  and  at  last 
we  started  in  a  small  trap  with  one  horse  in  pursuit  of  our 
friends.  My  companion  was  cross  at  having  missed  the  breakfast, 
which  I  described  in  glowing  words  as  he  munched  bread  and  a 
hard-boiled  egg  after  hastily  swallowing  some  tepid  coffee  at 
the  inn.  We  caught  the  others  up  as  they  were  resting  for 
lunch  by  the  roadside,  and  laughter  loud  and  long  greeted  my 
description  of  the  musician  imprisoned  in  his  bed  by  an  ancient 
decayed  countess. 

Who  can  describe  Volterra  and  the  queer,  savage  country 
round,  which  looks  as  though  giants  had  tossed  and  hurled  it 
about  in  sport  ?  Our  driver  assured  us  that  a  most  learned 
Professor  had  told  him — indeed  had  written  a  book  which 
proved  it — that  Noah  founded  the  city  and  gave  it  the  name 
of  his  grandson  Vul.  Thus  it  became,  of  course,  his  land 
{terra).  But  others  say  it  is  only  an  Etruscan  city,  he  added 
apologetically.  Only  an  Etruscan  city  !  I  felt  I  knew  more 
about  Noah  than  about  any  Etruscan.  A  visit  to  the  fine 
museum  only  made  one  long  more  and  more  to  have  the 
problem  solved  as  to  who  those  mysterious  people  were, 
sitting  on  their  cinerary  urns  with  such  pronounced  Napo- 
leonic faces.  There  was  the  great  Emperor  and  his  mother 
opposite,  while  fat  Plon-Plon  might  have  posed  for  three  or 
four  of  them.  The  Etruscan  ladies  must  have  been  learned, 
they  are  often  represented  with  an  open  book  in  one  hand. 
The  men  evidently  believed  as  devoutly  as  the  Neapolitans 
in  the  evil  eye;  some  made  the  well-known  corne,  or  horn, 


REMINISCENCES  239 

as  their  hands  lay  on  their  laps,  others  held  a  patera  In  one  hand 
which  had  a  hollow  underneath  into  which  the  two  middle 
fingers  went  while  the  first  and  the  fourth  stood  out  on  either 
side.  The  urns,  on  the  front  of  which  were  represented  scenes 
of  everyday  life,  often  very  pathetic,  were,  I  thought,  more 
interesting  than  those  which  depicted  the  spirit  of  the  dead  on 
horseback  and  hideous  old  Charon.  One  is  remarkable,  as  on 
it  is  carved  the  Porta  all'  Arco,  that  splendid  old  Etruscan 
gateway  with  three  formless  colossal  heads  which  guards 
Volterra.  Until  this  urn  was  found  the  huge  lumps  of  stone 
were  thought  to  be  lions'  heads  ;  now  we  know  that  the  central 
one  is  the  head  of  a  woman,  and  the  two  side  ones  warriors. 
Sunday  was  some  local  saint's  day  and  a  member  of 
Parliament  was  to  be  elected,  so  we  had  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  the  people  well.  They  are  a  fine  race,  the  girls  often 
handsome  with  long,  almond-shaped  eyes,  which  they  knew  how 
to  use,  and  strong  chins.  We  went  into  the  cathedral  and 
were  in  time  to  hear  part  of  the  sermon.  The  bishop  pointed 
often  to  a  large  silver  bust  on  the  high  altar  and  extolled  those 
who  believed  in  and  worshipped  relics  of  the  saints  and  martyrs. 
Raising  his  voice  he  exclaimed  :  "  You  will  hardly  believe  me, 
atheists  exist  who  dare  to  call  us  idolaters  for  praying  to  the 
sacred  bones  of  saints  and  martyrs.  What  do  they  worship  ?  " 
Here  he  seemed  to  fix  his  eyes  on  us  and  made  me  feel  quite 
uncomfortable.  "  The  heretical  English  come  to  Italy ; 
for  much  money  they  buy  the  greasy  old  hat  of  Gasperone  (a 
famous  bandit)  and  take  it  back  to  their  country  as  a  holy 
thing.  The  French,  alas  !  no  longer  love  our  Holy  Father  "  ; 
the  bishop  sighed  audibly,  and  after  a  dramatic  pause  continued 
in  an  awe-stricken  voice,  "  they  grovel  on  the  earth  and  kiss 
the  slipper  of  the  arch-demon  Voltaire.  The  Germans — 
ah,  you  may  well  shudder,  my  brethren — go  on  pilgrimage 
to  the  cell  of  that  unfrocked  priest  Luther,  whose  very  name  is 
an  abomination,  scrape  the  whitewash  off  the  wall,  and  pre- 
serve that  as  a  relic."  The  sermon  was  suddenly  stopped  by 
loud  shouts  of  Evviva  il  nostra  defutato  liberale,  and  a  band 
playing  Garibaldi's  hymn  ;  the  bishop  scowled  as  he  wiped 
his  face  with  a  yellow  and  red  cotton  handkerchief,  which 


240  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

looked  rather  odd  with  his  magnificent  crimson  satin  vest- 
ments and  white  mitre. 

In  the  evening  we  went  to  the  theatre  Persius  Flaccus, 
paying  fivepence  each  for  stalls.  The  opera  was  old,  tuneful 
Poliuto,  and  the  prima  donna  sang  and  acted  very  well  ;  so 
did  the  chorus  ;  but  the  Roman  senators,  mindful  of  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  of  wearing  hats  alia  Bersagliera,  had  cocked 
their  fillets  on  one  side  and  the  effect  was  irresistibly  comic. 
From  Volterra  we  drove  to  San  Vivaldo  to  see  the  curious 
terra-cottas  by  Gambasso  in  various  chapels  in  the  wood. 
Some  of  them,  particularly  the  Deposition,  were  very  fine. 
We  lunched  under  the  big  trees  and  then  drove  down  to  a 
station  on  the  line  to  Siena,  and  so,  as  dear  old  Samuel  Pepys 
would  have  said,  "  merry  as  might  be,  with  great  pleasure  and 
content  "  went  home. 

The  year  closed  sadly,  for  my  dear  old  friend  Mr.  Higford 
Burr  died.  At  Aldermaston  I  had  spent  so  many  happy  days 
for  so  many  years  and  made  so  many  good  friends  that  I  felt 
as  though  I  had  lost  my  second  home.  I  was  busy  all  the  winter 
collecting  and  revising  my  articles  on  Italy  and  Italian  life, 
which  Mr.  Kegan  Paul  published  the  following  year  with 
illustrations  by  Carlo  Orsi.  The  little  book,  Italian  Sketches^ 
was  quite  successful,  but  one  critic  scolded  me  so  unmercifully 
about  my  exuberant  use  of  commas  that  even  now,  after  so 
many  years,  I  sometimes  pause  and  ask  myself  whether  I  have 
not  put  in  one  too  many.  I  w^as  also  at  work  reading  through 
old  letters  for  Three  Generations  of  English  Women,  which 
Mr.  John  Murray  was  to  publish  the  following  year,  and 
writing  to  people  whose  father's  or  grandfather's  letters  I 
wanted  to  put  in  my  book.  At  Christmas  I  wrote  to  Kinglake 
and  to  Sir  Frederick  Burton  and  they  answered  : — 

A.  TV.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 
28  Hyde  Park  Place,  Marble  Arch,  W., 
"My  dear  Janet,  January  i,  iSSj. 

Your  welcome  note  has  just  reached  me — at  night — 
and  I  hail  it  as  offering  me  a  fair  prospect  of  our  meeting  thi 


REMINISCENCES  241 

year.  It  is  much  too  long  since  I  have  been  cheered  by  that 
burst  of  new  hfe  which  comes  into  my  world  at  the  sight  of 
dear  Janet  and  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

I  fear  I  have  no  anecdote  to  tell  you  of  Mrs.  Austin.  When 
I  first  saw  her  she  was  very  handsome  and  she  was  intellectual. 
She  had  no  idea  of  a  joke  ;  and  indeed,  as  far  as  she  could  make 
out,  a  joke  of  any  kind  was  to  her  a  detestable  interruption 
of  serious  reasoning  and  statements.  That  did  not  prevent 
some  publisher  from  selecting  her  to  write  the  life  of  Sydney 
Smith  !     But  I  don't  think  she  performed  the  task.  .  .  . 

Your  affectionate 

A.  W.  KiNGLAKE." 


Sir  Frederick  Burton  to  Janet  Ross. 

43  Argyll  Road,  January  11,  1887. 
"  My  dear  friend, 

...  It  was  a  drop  of  balm  to  get  your  signs  of  remem- 
brance. I  am  '  awfully  glad  '  to  hear  that  you  are  coming 
over  to  us  this  year,  and  with  the  agreeable  duty  of  looking 
after  the  publication  of  your  '  last.'  Alas  !  for  Aldermaston  ! 
There  we  shall  never  meet  more.  There  I  first  met  you  and  I 
think  we  '  cottoned  '  from  the  first — for  which  reason,  by  the 
way — I  have  the  less  fear  of  our  misunderstanding  each  other. 
You  are  kind  enough  to  ask  for  my  photograph.  But  I  have 
none  that  faithfully  render  the  mingled  traits  of  Plato  and  Adonis 
as  it  ought.  The  photograph's  camera  has  a  malicious  way  of 
misrepresenting  everything,  and  when  the  subject  sees  what 
it  has  made  of  him  he  is  horrified  to  find  that  art  and  science, 
which  profess  to  be  truthful  and  quite  '  objective,'  have  vil- 
lainously conspired  to  make  him  something  quite  unlike 
himself.  Surely  he  must  know  himself,  after  years  of  in- 
spection and  introspection  and  ever-increasing  admiration. 
Well,  I  must  look  out  the  thing.  Give  my  affectionate  regards 
to  all  at  the  villa  while  remembering  me  as  your  ever-sincere 
friend, 

Fred  Burton." 


242  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

St.  Hilaire,  whom  I  asked  to  have  my  grandmother's  letters 
to  him  ready  for  me  to  pick  up  on  my  way  through  Paris  in 
July,  wrote  me  a  long  letter,  of  which  I  give  an  extract,  curious 
as  coming  from  such  a  pronounced  Republican.  On  June  19, 
1887,  he  says  : — 

"...  Demain  I'Angleterre  va  oifrir  le  plus  grand  spectacle 
moral  qu'aura  vu  le  XIX  siecle.  Un  chef  d'Etat  aime,  honore, 
respecte,  par  une  grande  nation  apres  cinquante  ans  de  rela- 
tions constantes.  Heureux  les  Etats  ou  I'on  pent  se  rendre  ce 
temoignage,  qu'on  est  profondement  sincere  de  part  et  d'autre  ! 
Helas  !  " 

In  London  I  saw  Mr.  John  Murray,  who  having  published 
for  my  grandmother  and  my  mother,  was  good  enough  to  take 
interest  in  my  proposed  book.  He  declared  that  I  must 
translate  the  French  and  the  few  German  and  Italian  letters 
I  proposed  to  put  in  into  English.  I  refused  to  believe  that 
educated  English  people  did  not  know  enough,  of  at  least 
French,  to  read  them,  but  he  insisted  they  did  not,  and  that 
the  sale  of  the  book  would  suffer  if  they  were  not  translated. 
I  then  suggested  printing  both  originals  and  translations, 
to  which  he  did  not  agree.  I  was  by  no  means  convinced,  so 
when  I  went  to  stay  with  the  Markbys  at  Oxford  I  asked  various 
people's  advice  as  to  translating  the  letters.  Many,  indeed  most, 
said  "  Translate  them."  So  I  was  forced  to  confess  that  Mr. 
Murray  was  right  and  set  to  work  to  turn  the  letters  of  Guizot, 
Auguste  Comte,  St.  Hilaire,  etc.,  and  my  grandmother's 
letters  to  them,  into  English,  and  hard  work  it  was.  Sir  William 
gave  me  a  dehghtful  account  of  a  meeting  of  Doctors  of 
Divinity  at  Oxford  in  the  early  spring.  Under  the  statutes 
of  the  University  any  Master  of  Arts  may  bring  a  charge  of 
heresy  against  the  preacher  of  a  University  sermon  who  he 
thinks  is  guilty  of  such  an  offence.  The  charge  has  to  be  tried 
by  six  Doctors  of  Divinity  with  the  Vice-Chancellor  as  presi- 
dent. Such  a  charge  was  brought  and  the  doctors  met. 
Three  were  of  opinion  there  was  heresy  in  the  sermon,  three 
that  there  was  none,  and  the  Vice-Chancellor  gave  his  casting 


REMINISCENCES  243 

vote  in  favour  of  the  delinquent.  One  doctor  it  was  reported 
delivered  the  following  judgment  :  "  The  account  in  the  Bible 
is  unintelligible.  The  sermon  is  unintelligible.  Whatever 
the  meanings  may  be  they  are  not  the  same." 

Meanwhile  I  wrote  to  several  people  who  I  thought  might 
be  able  to  help  me  in  obtaining  information  about  my  Norwich 
forbears.  Some  of  the  replies  I  give.  Dr.  Jessopp's,  because 
so  amusing,  and  so  characteristic  of  the  man  I  always  wished 
to  meet  and  alas,  always  missed  ;  my  unknown  old  cousin, 
Mrs.  Wilde's,  because  it  gives  so  graphic  an  account  of  middle- 
class  life  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century  ;  and  Lord 
Albemarle's,  because  it  confirmed  a  dim  reminiscence  of  my 
childhood,  when  someone  told  me  that  Mrs.  John  Taylor 
was  called  Madame  Roland  of  Norwich,  partly  on  account  of 
her  resemblance  to  the  handsome  Frenchwoman,  partly  on 
account  of  her  pronounced  liberal  opinions  and  her  conver- 
sational powers. 

Rev.  Dr.  A.  Jessopp  to  Janet  Ross. 

Scarning  Rectory,  East  Dereham,  August  16,  1887. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

It  is  always  pleasant  to  me  to  find  Miss  North  a  link 
in  any  chain  which  brings  me  into  communication  with  others, 
but  there  was  no  need  for  you  to  wait  for  any  auspices  before 
doing  me  the  honour  of  writing  to  me.  I  have  long  been  in 
the  habit  of  thinking  you  a  goddess  moving  in  a  celestial 
ether  and  surrounded  by  a  halo. 

Years  ago  an  adoring  worshipper  of  yours  used  to  talk  of 
you  in  such  words  as  only  he  can  use,  and  your  name  is  to  me 
the  name  of  an  enchantress — gifted  with  every  grace  human 
and  divine. 

As  to  Norwich — I  fear  there  is  very  little  to  be  learnt  about 
Taylors  and  Opies  and  that  gifted  set  now. 

John  Gunn  who  married  one  of  the  Dawson  Turners  is  still 
alive,  he  is  some  years  past  eighty  and  retains  a  good  deal 
of  his  old  force  and  intelligence,  but  he  always  was  an  im- 


244  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

practicable  old  dog  ever  since  I  knew  him  and  he  is  not  more 
practicable  now.  I  shall  see  liim  in  a  few  days  and  will  see  if 
anything  can  be  got  out  of  him.  When  I  first  settled  in  Nor- 
wich in  1859  there  were  many  men  alive  who  had  odd  scraps 
of  gossip  about  the  Taylors,  Opies,  and  others— but  I  was  young 
in  those  days  and  foolish  and  missed  my  opportunities,  and  for- 
got that  old  people  die  and  carry  their  odds  and  ends  with  them 
to  the  grave,  '  where  all  things  are  forgotten.' 

James  Martineau  is  pretty  sure  to  be  able  to  give  you  some 
information.  That  very  unamiable  sister  of  his  quarrelled 
witli  him  (as  indeed  she  did  with  most  people)  for  many  years 
— but  I  am  pretty  sure  he  came  to  her  funeral  and  I  have 
a  dim  suspicion  of  his  having  odd  scraps  of  tales  to  tell. 

I  will  make  enquiries  about  the in  a  day  or  two  and  let 

you  hear  the  result.    Believe  me, 

Faithfully  your  servant, 

Augustus  Jessopp." 

Rev.  Dr.  A.  Jessopp  to  Janet  Ross. 

East  Anstey  Rectory,  Dulverton,  September  13,  1887. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  am  not  surprised  that  Mrs. is  dead,  she  was  as 

I  remember  her  just  the  sort  of  person  who  would  die  when 
she  was  wanted  to  keep  alive  and  to  keep  alive  when  she  ought 
to  have  died,  I  will  try  to  look  up  her  son  when  I  am  in 
Norwich  next  month.  As  you  say,  the  chances  are  that  little 
is  to  be  recovered  now — years  pass  over  us  and  we  get 
obliterated.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well.  We  are  always  trying 
to  create  for  ourselves  a  fictitious  immortality.  Is  posterity 
worth  living  for  ?  The  chances  are  that  the  generations 
yet  unborn  will  be  no  better  or  nobler  or  more  generous  than 
the  generations  that  are  or  were,  and  as  a  rule  Man  is  '  a 
mean  cuss.' 

How  I  used  to  wish  to  get  to  Italy — but  I  shall  never  go  now 
— not  even  to  pay  you  a  visit.     I  will  dream  of  you  and  your 


REMINISCENCES  245 

Italy,  but  I  am  not  fit  to  pay  visits  to  anyone.  I  am  a  lumpy 
man — sleepy — heavy-eyed  and  failing — lumps  under  my 
waistcoat — lumps  in  my  speech — lumps  getting  in  my  way  when 
I  attempt  to  think  consecutively,  smoothness  nowhere.  You 
would  shake  me — hurl  me  Heaven  knows  whither.  I  should  be 
but  as  a  clod  lumbering  awkwardly  over  mountain-tops  and 
through  quagmires  driven  by  you  the  hurricane.  Let  us 
look  on  enough.  In  this  life  I  shall  not  see  much  more.  But 
in  a  spiritual  world  I  have  a  large  plan  marked  out  for  my  soul, 
and  there  and  then  (if  indeed  '  there  '  and  '  then  '  are  not 
only  of  earth  earthy)  our  spheres  will  somehow  approach  and 
God  knows  what  else. 

Faithfully  yours, 

A.  Jessopp." 

Mrs.  Wilde  to  Janet  Ross. 

Hadley,  Barnet,  November  5,  1887. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  duly  received  your  kind  note  and  will  now  give  you 
my  reminiscences  as  well  as  I  can,  but  they  are  so  far  back 
that  I  fear  they  will  be  of  little  use  to  you.  Our  relation- 
ship dates  from  my  grandmother  and  your  great-great-grand- 
mother who  were  sisters,  two  Miss  Aieadows,  and  were  both 
left  widows  when  very  young,  each  with  seven  children,  five 
sons  and  two  daughters.  As  they  lived  in  adjoining  houses 
in  Magdalen  Street,  Norwich,  you  can  easily  imagine  that  the 
cousins  were  brought  up  as  brothers  and  sisters — hence  the 
love  and  affection  that  has  bound  us  all  together.  The  eldest 
of  the  Taylor  family,  a  Presbyterian  minister,  lived  in  Dublin, 
and  whenever  he  came  over  to  this  country  all  the  united 
families  met  together  at  Norwich  and  celebrated  their  meetings 
with  family  songs.  The  Taylors  were  all  musical.  The  first 
of  these  meetings  seems  to  have  been  in  1784.  The  next  in 
1796 — my  grandmother  still  Hving  to  preside.  Then  came  one 
in  1801.  Then  one  in  August,  1807.  Then  one  in  August, 
1814.     All  celebrated  by  songs  from  your  great-grandfather. 


246  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Then  the  last  was  in  August,  1824 — when  we  had  got  too  large 
a  party  for  any  room,  so  they  hired  a  steamboat  and  went 
to  Richmond,  a  very  large  party — this  was  the  last. 

Your  great-grandmother  [Mrs.  John  Taylor]  was  a  most 
remarkable  woman.  In  1812  I  was  at  school  near  Norwich, 
and  the  kind  old  lady  used  to  draw  together  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  of  the  young  people  and  after  a  hospitable  regale  of 
tea  and  cake  set  us  down  to  games — your  grandmother  [Sarah 
Taylor,  afterwards  Mrs.  Austin]  presiding.  I  always  felt  an 
ignoramus  amongst  those  clever  girls,  and  remember  to  this 
day  the  historical  commerce  and  my  horror  lest  I  should  mis- 
match my  Kings  and  Queens. 

When  I  was  seventeen  I  was  again  at  Norwich,  and  then  it 
was  that  I  was  so  struck  with  Mrs.  Taylor's  wonderful  conver- 
sational powers.  One  day  in  particular  I  was  sent  to  her  with 
some  message  from  my  mother.  It  was  on  a  Saturday,  market 
day.  I  was  shown  into  the  humble  sitting-room.  Two  farmers 
were  talking  earnestly  to  her,  whilst  she  was  industriously  at 
work.  I  sat  quietly  by,  but  soon  got  interested  in  the  talk, 
such  conversation  as  I  seldom  had  heard  before.  When  they 
were  gone  I  found  that  it  was  to  Mr.  Coke  of  Holkham  and  Lord 
Albemarle  that  I  had  been  listening  so  attentively.  It  was 
their  habit  on  a  market  day  to  indulge  themselves  with  a  talk 
with  the  clever  old  lady.  Then  on  a  Sunday  she  used  to  excite 
our  envy — we  used  to  see  her  nodding  all  through  Mr.  Madge's 
good  sermons,  afterwards  she  would  criticize  every  part, 
whilst  we,  who  had  been  listening  with  eyes  and  ears  open, 
could  remember  so  very  little. 

The  winter  of  181 3  was  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  much  of 
your  grandmother  Sally  Taylor.  We  were  passing  the  winter 
at  Bath,  and  she,  accompanied  by  her  brother  Arthur,  had 
undertaken  to  travel  from  Norwich  to  Tavistock.  It  was 
very  severe  weather  and  at  Bath  she  was  taken  ill,  so  my 
mother  and  I  started  off  to  the  White  Hart  to  see  how  we  could 
help.  We  found  her  really  very  ill,  so  we  put  her  into  a  sedan- 
chair  and  marched  off  with  her  to  our  lodgings.  She  was  with 
us  I  should  think  about  ten  days,  lying  on  our  sofa  with  no 
dress  but  a  riding-habit.    It  was  just  when  her  beauty  was  at 


REMINISCENCES  247 

its  height,  and  I  remember  how  our  drawing-room  was  besieged 
by  gentlemen  to  see  the  recumbent  beauty. 

The  first  time  I  saw  your  grandfather  John  Austin  was  at 
a  supper-party  at  your  great-uncle's  Richard  Taylor  in  Fetter 
Lane.  I  had  been  to  see  the  new  steam  press  at  The  Times 
office,  it  was  about  1816.  The  maker  and  inventor  of  the  press 
formed  our  party.  Your  grandfather  was  standing  on  the 
rug  when  one  of  the  party  asked  him  why  he  had  forsaken 
the  army  to  enter  the  law.  '  Because  I  was  a  coward ;  I  felt 
sure  I  should  disgrace  myself  and  run  away.'  I  thought  how 
much  more  true  courage  it  took  to  confess  to  being  a  coward. 
Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ross,  I  must  have  tired  you  as  well  as 
myself.  Should  I  be  still  living  when  you  return  to  England 
I  should  be  very  glad  to  welcome  you  to  Hadley.  I  have  given 
you  a  long,  prosy  letter  with  nothing  really  to  help  you  in  it. 

Believe  me  yours  very  truly, 

Margaret  Wilde. 

I  undoubtedly  accept  the  cousinship." 

The  Earl  of  Albemarle  to  Janet  Ross. 

Lydhurst,  Hayward's  Heath,  Sussex, 

November  26,  1887. 

"  Alas  !  dear  Cousin  Janet,  I  cannot  help  you  in  your 
researches.  When  I  was  preparing  Fifty  Tears  of  my  Life  for 
the  Press,  I  had  access  to  the  letters  of  *  Coke  of  Holkham  ' 
and  to  my  father's.  If  I  could  have  hghted  on  the  hand- 
writing of  either  John  Taylor  or  of  that  lady  who  was  known 
as  the  '  Madame  Roland  of  Norwich  '  [Mrs.  John  Taylor] 
I  should  have  been  only  too  proud  to  give  the  MS.  a  place  in 
my  reminiscences.  Nor  can  I  give  you  any  additional  anecdotes 
of  your  distinguished  great-grandparents.  All  my '  Tayloriana  ' 
will  be  found  under  date  of  1820  of  my  memoirs.  Among  the 
members  of  that  gifted  family  your  beauteous  and  charming 
mother  holds  a  place. 

Your  affectionate  kinsman, 

Albemarle." 


248  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

While  at  Oxford  I  made  great  friends  with  that  handsome 
and  agreeable  anthropologist  Dr.  Tylor,  who  set  me  a  difficult 
task  in  the  following  letter  : — 

Dr.  E.  B.  Tylor  to  Janet  Ross. 

Museum  House,  Oxford,  December  6,  1887. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

In  talking  with  Markby  yesterday,  it  occurred  to  me  to 
ask  you  about  a  piece  of  Florentine  witchcraft  reported  by 
Mr.  Leyland  in  the  Folklore  Journal,  J"!/)  1887.  It  refers 
to  the  use  of  a  ghirlanda,  a  long  twisted  cord  stuck  full  of 
feathers  put  in  crosswise,  which  is  hidden  in  a  person's  bed 
to  cause  sickness  and  death.  This  interests  me  in  connection 
with  a  rope  stuck  with  feathers,  about  five  feet  long,  which 
was  found  hidden  in  the  thatch  roof  of  a  cottage  in  Somerset, 
and  is  considered  to  have  been  used  for  sorcery.  If  you  can 
find  out  what  the  Florentines  really  make  that  resembles  this 
on  a  small  scale,  and  what  they  mean  by  it,  it  would  help 
to  clear  up  the  matter,  and  possibly  you  are  enough  in  their 
confidence  to  get  a  model  made  for  me.  I  have  excellent 
information  about  Neapolitan  witchcraft  in  Pitre's  books, 
but  little  about  North  Italy.  We  are  reading  your  late  book 
with  much  pleasure,  and  I  could  not  get  to  sleep  on  the  hearth- 
rug on  Sunday  for  hearing  the  sorrows  of  La  Gioconda.  .  .  . 

Yours  sincerely, 

E.  B.  Tylor." 

In  obedience  to  Dr.  Tylor's  request  I  a^ked  various  inhabi- 
tants of  Lastra-a-Signa  about  a  ghirlanda  ;  no  one  had  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing — or  at  any  rate  would  not  admit  they 
knew  about  it.  At  last  our  gardening  lad,  a  sharp,  not  over 
well-conducted  fellow,  beckoned  me  into  a  secluded  part  of  the 
garden,  and  in  a  whisper  said  he  could  get  me  a  ghirlanda  della 
morie  from  an  old  woman  who  was  a  witch.  But  it  would  be 
very  expensive  ;   a  napoleon  in  gold,  and  I  must  promise  never 


REMINISCENCES  249 

to  say  anything  about  it.  I  accepted  with  alacrity,  and  in  a 
week  a  small  wreath  made  of  dirty  feathers,  old  decayed  teeth, 
and  wisps  of  hair,  was  brought  by  the  boy.  I  put  it  into  the 
oven  at  once  as  it  smelt  extremely  nasty,  and  then  packed  it 
carefully  in  silver  paper  and  a  wooden  box  and  sent  it  to  Oxford. 
The  next  time  I  walked  through  the  village  I  noticed  that 
people  looked  askance  at  me  and  whispered,  while  they  glanced 
pityingly  at  my  husband.  My  old  Giulio,  who  tended  the 
fowls,  disappeared  when  I  went  into  the  garden  and  no  longer 
lay  in  w^ait  to  indulge  in  a  long  yarn.  At  length  I  discovered 
that  everyone  believed  I  had  bought  the  ghirlanda  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  my  husband  !  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Tylor  that  thanks 
to  him  and  in  the  pursuit  of  science  I  had  lost  my  reputation 
entirely,  and  should  probably  soon  rank  as  a  witch.  He  wrote 
saying  that  it  was  "  a  remarkable  object  and  in  some  future 
age  may  very  likely  be  treasured  as  the  only  relic  preserved 
of  an  ugly  magical  device." 

In  reading  through  Mrs.  Austin's  letters  to  our  old  friend 
St.  Hilaire,  I  came  upon  a  sentence  in  which  she  said  she  re- 
garded him  as  a  beloved  brother.  So,  when  sending  him  for 
Christmas  a  little  collection  of  ItaHan  popular  songs,  I  told 
him  that  it  followed  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  was  my 
great-uncle,  a  title  he  at  once  adopted. 


M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Boulevard  Flandrin  4,  13  Janvier,  1888. 

"  Ma  chere  Janet,  ma  petite  niece,  puisque  j'etais  le  frere 
de  votre  grandmere.  J'ai  regu  votre  lettre  avec  le  charmant 
petit  rouleau.  Je  ne  vous  savez  pas  ce  talent  ;  et  je  compte 
bien  vous  demander  de  me  chanter  quelques-uns  de  ces  airs 
populaires,  la  premiere  fois  que  j'aurais  le  plaisir  de  vous  voir. 
Je  ne  suis  pas  en  etat  de  lire  le  musique  a  livre  ouvert,  mais  les 
paroles  sont  fort  jolies  et  les  sentiments  sont  des  plus  naturels. 
Toutes  ces  populations  italiennes  sont  etonnement  douees  ; 
et  il  est  bon  qu'on  ne  laisse  pas  perdre  ces  aimables  inspirations. 
Mais  vous  n'etes  pas  seulement  rnusicienne  ;    vous  etes  poete 


250  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

aussi ;   et  vos  compatriotes  doivent  vous  savoir  gre  de  la  peine 
que  vous  avez  prise  pour  eux. 

Je  ne  veux  pas  de  mal  a  M.  Gladstone,  tant  s'en  faut ;  mais 
je  crois  qu'il  serait  heureux  pour  lui  et  pour  I'Angleterre 
qu'il  fut  tellement  enroue  qu'il  ne  put  plus  parler.  Je  regarde 
qu'il  se  fait  a  lui-meme  ainsi  qu'a  son  pays  le  plus  grand  tort, 
en  employant  son  eloquence  ainsi  qu'il  le  fait.  Bien  des 
amities  et  des  remerciements,  et  tous  mes  souhaits  de  bonne 
annee. 

Votre  grand-oncle  bien  devoue, 

By.  St.  Hilaire." 

In  January,  1888,  Sir  James  Lacaita  lent  his  apartment  in 
Florence  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gladstone,  and  they  were  to  come 
to  lunch  at  Castagnolo  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stephen  Gladstone 
and  Miss  Gladstone.  We  waited  and  waited — no  tram  passed. 
At  last  we  heard  that  the  engine  had  broken  down  half-way, 
and  that  our  guests  were  stranded.  Fortunately  Mrs.  Hodgson 
Burnett  had  driven  down,  so  her  carriage  was  at  once  de- 
spatched while  the  jattore's  barrocino  and  my  donkey-chaise 
were  got  ready  in  all  haste.  Mr.  Gladstone  was  rather  irate, 
but  soon  became  interested  in  talking  about  Tuscan  land  tenure. 
He  thought  I  was  wrong  in  several  things,  and  I  saw  by  dear 
Mrs.  Gladstone's  face  that  she  was  rather  nervous  lest  I  should 
contradict  him  too  flatly,  so  I  changed  the  conversation. 
After  lunch  he  and  our  landlord,  Marchese  Delia  Stufa, 
who  came  up  from  Rome  a  few  days  before,  had  a  long  talk, 
and  Mr.  Gladstone,  courteous  and  charming  as  ever,  called 
to  me  and  said  it  was  partly  my  fault  that  his  knowledge  of  the 
mezzeria  was  not  more  exact.  "  You  ought  to  have  written 
an  article  about  it  as  you  have  done  about  other  Italian  matters 
and  then  I  should  have  known."  Later  I  wrote  the  article 
which  is  included  in  my  little  book  Old  Florence  and  Modem 
Tuscany,  published  by  Messrs.  Dent. 

I  must  here  mention  a  curious  instance  of  the  influence — 
or  should  I  say  fascination — wielded  by  Mr.  Gladstone.  A 
Radical  Scotch  friend  of  ours,  a  lame  man  who  never  travelled 


REMINISCENCES  251 

abroad,  heard  that  Mr.  Gladstone  had  spent  some  hours  with 
us  at  the  villa.  He  wrote  a  most  indignant  letter  asking  why 
I  had  not  telegraphed  to  tell  him  to  come.  Did  I  not  know 
his  great  wish  in  hfe  had  been  to  meet  the  great  statesman  ? 
He  never  really  forgave  me. 


CHAPTER    XV 

WHEN  last  at  Leucaspide  I  had  promised  Sir  James 
to  try  and  write  about  his  beloved  Apulia,  so  I 
began  reading  books  on  the  subject,  among 
others  Dr.  Hodgkin's  fascinating  Italy  and  Her 
Invaders.  Writing  to  my  cousin  Markby  I  said  :  "  Would  that 
I  knew  the  author.  He  knows  so  much,  I  know  so  little,  and 
here  can  only  get  Italian  histories  and  consequently  only  the 
Latinized  names  of  the  Lombard  Dukes."  Sir  Wilham 
replied  that  when  he  got  my  letter  Dr.  Hodgkin  was  sitting 
in  his  study  at  Headington  Hill,  and  that  he  had  handed  it 
to  him.  Whereupon  Dr.  Hodgkin  had  said  that  he  would 
wilHngly  look  over  my  proofs  relating  to  the  Longobards, 
and  that  I  was  to  wTite  to  him.  Naturally  I  seized  on  such 
a  splendid  offer  and  received  in  reply  the  kindest  of  letters, 
which  followed  me  to  Leucaspide  : — 

Dr.  Thomas  Hodgkin  to  Janet  Ross. 

Trcdourva,  Falmouth,  April  i8,  1888. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Your  kind  letter  is  very  gratifying  to  me  and  (through 
my  fault  and  nobody  else's)  rather  depressing.  I  have  to 
confess  to  you  with  shame  that  I  am  making  no  way  at  all 
with  the  Lombards.  I  have  written  the  first  chapter  of  the 
book  which  deals  with  the  obscure  movement  of  the  Longo- 
bards in  Pannonia  and  the  like,  and  have  just  got  Alboin 
on  to  the  stage,  and  then  I  have  laid  the  work  aside  for  the 
present.  The  reason  is  that  I  find  a  second  edition  of  my  first 
two  volumes  is  called  for  and  I  am  not  satisfied  to  republish 

252 


REMINISCENCES  253 

them  witliout  a  very  thorough  revision  and  amphfication. 
Especially  of  the  early  chapters.  I  have  felt  for  some  time 
that  though  the  third  and  fourth  volumes  and  part  of  the 
second  are  (though  not  good)  yet  about  as  good  as  I  can  make 
them.  But  this  is  not  the  case  with  the  early  part  of  the  book, 
especially  the  history  of  the  reign  of  Theodosius.  So  I  am 
now  going  over  all  that  part  of  the  book  much  more  thoroughly 
than  before.  Experienced  authors  tell  me  that  this  is  not 
worth  while  ;  that  you  never  get  credit  for  any  improvements 
that  you  may  make  in  a  second  edition  ;  but  my  literary 
conscience  says  it  has  to  be  done,  and  I  must  obey.  All  this 
work  I  hope  before  many  months  are  over  to  have  put  behind 
me  and  to  get  back  to  those  to  me  still  shadowy  Lombard 
Kings.  So  as  you  will  see  I  am  in  no  condition  to  offer  help, 
though  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  receive  it  from  you  and  I  shall 
be  very  grateful  for  it.  I  fancy  that  Theodelinda  will  be 
the  most  interesting  figure  in  the  new  volume,  and  after  her 
perhaps  Luitprand.  I  fancy  also  that  I  shall  have  to  show 
that  the  Lombard  Kingdom  and  duchies  were  not  so  much 
overthrown  by  Carolo  Magno  (as  we  used  to  suppose)  as  taken 
over,  and  provided  with  new  kings  out  of  his  own  family. 
(The  sort  of  process  in  fact  which  Napoleon  hoped  to  carry 
out  with  Holland  and  Spain,  rather  than  that  which  he  adopted 
with  the  departments  which  he  actually  annexed  to  France.) 
But  as  to  all  this  I  confess  that  I  write  as  one  still  very  much 
in  the  dark. 

If,  after  all  this  confession  of  ignorance,  you  still  care  for 
me  to  look  at  any  of  the  sheets  of  your  forthcoming  book 
I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  so.  I  congratulate  you  heartily 
on  your  subject.  The  Fall  of  the  Hohenstaufens  is  one  of 
the  most  pathetic  tragedies  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  has 
not  yet — as  far  as  I  know — found  its  '  sacred  poet.'  Professor 
Freeman,  as  you  probably  know,  is  working  hard  at  the  Normans 
in  Sicily  and  must  come  very  near  to  your  period,  if  he  does 
not  actually  touch  it.  Would  you  care  to  be  put  in  communi- 
cation with  him  (if  you  are  not  so  already)  ?  On  such  points 
a?  the  authenticity  of  Matteo  di  Giovennazzo  (as  to  which  I 
am  ignorant)  he  will   probably  have  formed  a  decided  and 


254  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

reasonably  safe  opinion.  No  doubt  in  dealing  with  our  German 
fellow-workers  we  have  often  to  be  on  our  guard  against  what 
they  themselves  call  '  Ueber-Kritik.'  I  think  one  often  feels 
in  German  work  the  absence  of  that  habit  of  weighing  evi- 
dence and  attributing  to  it  its  full  weight,  nothing  more 
and  nothing  less,  which  generations  of  jury  practice  have 
made  a  second  nature  to  the  English  intellect. 

Now  I  must  end  this  I  fear  very  unsatisfactory  letter.  If 
I  can  still  be  of  any  use  to  you  either  as  to  Longobards  or 
otherwise  pray  use  my  services  freely.  I  feel  sure  that  your 
book  will  be  a  success  because  it  has  evidently  been  written 
with  the  true  historian's  enthusiasm  for  his  subject. 

I  am  yours  very  truly, 

Thos.  Hodgkin." 

In  April  I  started  with  Carlo  Orsi,  who  was  to  illustrate 
the  book.  Sir  Edward  Poynter's  son  Ambrose,  and  my  maid, 
for  Barletta  and  Trani,  towns  loved  by  the  Emperor  Frederick 
and  his  son  Manfred.  We  spent  the  day  at  Barletta,  where 
Manfred,  "  dressed  in  green,  the  colour  of  hope  and  youth, 
was  often  pleased  to  go  about  the  streets  at  night  singing 
strambuotti  and  songs."  I  only  hope  the  town  was  cleaner 
than  when  we  were  there.  Our  cabman  took  us  first  to  the 
huge,  but  ugly,  bronze  statue  of  the  Emperor  Heraclius,  il 
Colosso  d^Arachi,  he  called  it,  and  then  to  the  cathedral  with 
a  fine  west  front  of  the  twelfth  century.  Near  Barletta  the 
Ofanto,  "  proud  Aufidus,"  the  only  river  along  that  coast 
for  two  hundred  and  sixty  miles,  enters  the  sea.  It  was 
Holy  Week  and  the  inn  at  Trani  was  rather  full  and  pretty 
dirty,  but  a  nice  custom  prevails  in  Apulia  of  bringing  sheets 
and  blankets  neatly  folded  on  a  tray  to  show  that  they  are 
clean,  so  the  beds  are  reliable.  My  travelling-bath  excited 
great  wonder,  and  at  last  the  landlord  decided  it  must  be  some 
novel  musical  instrument,  and  that  we  were  probably  musicians. 
But  when  the  wicker  basket  was  lifted  out  and  hot  water 
was  asked  for,  the  landlady,  her  daughters,  and  the  cook 
came  to  see  it,  much  to  my  maid  Maria's  indignation.     Our 


REMINISCENCES  255 

relationships  also  puzzled  them.  At  last  they  settled  that 
Carlo  Orsi  and  Maria  were  man  and  wife,  and  that  I  was 
probably  the  mother  of  Ambrose.  Why  therefore  did  we 
want  four  rooms  ?  Surely  married  people  could  sleep  to- 
gether, and  my  son  might  be  content  with  a  tiny  room  opening 
out  of  mine. 

On  Good  Friday  we  went  to  see  the  procession  and  a  kindly 
barber  offered  us  seats  in  his  shop.  He  was  eloquent  about 
the  luxury  of  women  nowadays.  "  They  want  necklaces, 
and  rings,  and  silk  dresses,  and  with  this  blessed  progress 
they  learn  to  read  and  write,  but  they  don't  learn  how  to  sew 
and  sweep."  The  people  stared  at  me  and  my  hat,  as  the 
women  all  wore  shawls  over  their  heads  like  the  Venetians. 
"  Are  you  a  man,  that  you  wear  a  hat  ?  "  asked  a  small  boy. 
Some  nice-looking  young  men  at  once  reproved  him  and  asked 
me  to  excuse  the  bad  manners  of  an  ignorante.  They  then 
offered  to  show  us  the  way  to  the  cathedral  and  made  way  for 
us  through  the  crowd.  On  Saturday  my  companions  went 
to  sketch,  and  I  returned  to  the  cathedral  to  see  what  the 
abbavescio  di  Crista  was,  for  which  I  had  been  asked  to  give 
some  pennies.  I  met  our  friends  of  the  day  before,  who  com- 
plimented me  on  the  courage  I  showed  in  walking  about  alone. 
*'  It  is  an  admirable  quaHty,"  they  exclaimed.  "  Where  do 
you  come  from  ?  "  When  I  said  I  was  English  they  poured 
forth  a  torrent  of  compliments  on  my  Italian,  and  I  replied 
by  admiring  Trani  and  the  civility  of  the  Tranesi.  As  the 
clock  struck  eleven  a  great  curtain  which  hid  the  high  altar 
fell,  and  the  noise  which  followed  was  frightful.  The  whole 
congregation  shouted,  knocked  their  sticks  on  the  pavement 
and  dashed  chairs  against  the  walls,  while  the  bells  rang  all 
over  the  town.  This  was  the  abbavescio,  which  I  discovered 
meant  the  resurrection  of  Christ.  When  I  turned  to  go 
my  friends  called  out  that  a  Signora  forestiera  wished  to  reach 
the  door,  and  the  people  at  once  made  room.  The  noise 
outside  was  even  worse.  Crackers,  paper  bombs,  and  rockets 
were  exploding  all  over  the  place,  and  on  the  pavement  in 
front  of  every  house  were  lines  of  little  brown-paper  parcels 
full   of  gunpowder,   which   went   off  with   deafening  effect. 


/^ 


256  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

This  was  the  batteria  di  Gesii  (the  battery  of  Jesus),  a  demon- 
stration of  joy  at  His  rising  from  the  tomb. 

The  magnificent  cathedral  with  its  wonderful  bronze  doors  cast 
by  Barisanus  of  Trani  about  1 1 75,  and  the  seven-storied  campan- 
ile built  on  a  great  archway,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe. 
But  the  harbour  brought  handsome,  fair-haired  Manfred  vividly 
before  us.  Here  Helen,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  despot  of 
Epirus,  disembarked  and  met  the  young  King,  and  from  here, 
a  broken-hearted  young  widow  with  four  small  children, 
she  attempted  to  fly.  Contrary  winds  prevented  her  ship  from 
leaving  the  harbour,  and  the  Castellano  treacherously  delivered 
her  up  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Charles  of  Anjou.  It  is  a 
curious  coincidence  that  one  of  Frederick's  many  distichs 
runs :  Fugite  Iranenses  ex  sanguine  Judce  descendentes.  (Avoid 
the  Tranesi  descended  from  the  blood  of  Judas.) 

From  Trani  an  hour's  drive  took  us  to  Andria  on  our  way 
to  Castel  di  Monte.  "  In  spite  of  our  host's  warning  not 
even  to  get  out  of  the  carriage  in  such  a  nest  of  thieves  and 
assassins,  we  went  to  the  cathedral  hoping  to  find  the  tombs 
of  the  two  Empresses  Yolande  and  Isabella  of  England, 
but  there  was  not  even  an  inscription.  A  good-looking  young 
artisan  came  up  and  said  we  really  ought  not  to  leave  y\.ndria 
without  seeing  the  Duke,  and  directed  us  to  an  old  church, 
S.  Domenico,  near  by.  In  the  refectory  of  the  abandoned 
convent  lived  an  old  man  who  led  us  through  a  picturesque 
cloister  in  ruins  to  a  chapel.  He  unhooked  a  rudely  painted 
board  on  which  was  written  the  titles  of  Duke  Francis  of 
Balzo,  or  de  Baux,  who  died  in  1482,  and  we  saw  an  open 
cofiin,  with  a  sheet  of  glass  on  the  outer  side,  in  which  lay 
a  brown  mummy  v/ith  some  white  hairs  on  the  head.  The 
horrid  old  man  took  hold  of  the  poor  mummified  Duke, 
lifted  him  high  up  by  one  leg,  and  explained  that  this  was  a 
favourite  diver  time  iito  (amusement)  in  Andria. 

The  drive  to  Frederick's  castle  was  long.  A  broad,  straight 
road,  slightly  uphill,  leads  to  Corato,  with  almond  trees, 
and  vines  grown  in  the  Apulian  fashion  each  in  a  little  hole 
and  only  a  foot  high,  on  either  side  as  far  as  we  could  see. 
From  Corato  we  had  to  walk  part  of  the  seven  miles  to  the 


REMINISCENCES  257 

top  of  the  Murgie  hills,  as  the  track,  road  it  could  not  be 
called,  was  in  some  places  covered  with  large  lumps  of  stone. 
Only  gallant  little  Apulian  horses  could  have  got  along. 

For  days  Castel  del  Monte  had  stood  up  against  the  sky, 
and  Gregorovius'  poetical  description  in  his  Wanderjahre 
had  made  me  keen  to  see  it  near.  Up  a  steep,  bare,  conical 
hill  we  climbed,  almost  on  hands  and  knees,  to  the  octagonal 
castle  with  low  octagonal  towers  at  each  corner.  An  old  guard 
who  lived  in  a  hut  near  by  greeted  us  with  delight.  His  life 
was  a  lonely  one.  "  There  is  nothing  to  see  in  here,"  he  said  ; 
"  since  the  Government  bought  it  the  shepherds  are  no  longer 
allowed  to  stall  their  sheep  inside."  Nothing  to  see  !  The 
principal  doorway  all  of  rosy  marble  ;  the  eight  great  halls, 
three  of  which  have  doors  opening  into  the  courtyard  ;  the 
vaulted  ceilings  with  rosaces  of  flowers  and  heads  uniting  the 
marble  ribs  which  support  the  roof  ;  and  then  the  view  ! 
"  You  can  see  the  whole  world,"  said  the  guard,  "  so  we  call 
it  La  Spia  delle  Puglie  "  (The  Spy  of  Apulia).  The  rooms  of 
the  great  Emperor  were  no  doubt  upstairs,  as  two  of  them 
had  large  marble  chimney-pieces  and  the  vaulted  roofs  are 
in  mosaic.  There  we  lunched,  having  invited  the  guard  to 
join  us.  Before  drinking  his  first  glass  of  wine  he  got  up  off 
the  pink  marble  steps  of  the  window  where  we  sat  and  said  : 
"  It  is  a  fortunate  day  for  me  when  such  distinguished  and 
learned  people  come  into  my  solitude,"  and  then  breaking 
into  rhyme  about  the  intellect  of  man  which  could  control 
all  things — tigers,  elephants,  lions,  and  women — ended  with  : — 

"And  I  drank  up  the  wine." 

A  faint  reminiscence  of  the  great  Emperor's  Eastern  re- 
tainers lingers  round  Castel  del  Monte  in  the  name  of  a  flower. 
The  yellow  asphodel  is  known  there  as  Arrusha,  which  is  the 
Arab  word  for  a  bride. 

We  stopped  at  Bari  in  spite  of  the  w-arning  of  Frederick  II, 
"  Avoid  a  Barian  as  thou  wouldst  a  drawn  sword,"  and  per- 
haps because  of  his  warning  we  did  not  like  the  people.  The 
inside  of  the  old  cathedral  is  sadly  spoiled  by  stucco,  white- 
wash, and  alterations  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but  the  carving 


258  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

round  doors  and  windows  outside  is  beautiful.  San  Niccolo, 
the  great  fortress-like  priory,  delighted  us,  particularly  the 
wonderful  crypt.  A  forest  of  pillars  with  intricately  carved 
capitals  seem  to  rise  straight  out  of  the  earth,  as  owing  to 
infiltrations  from  the  sea  the  pavement  has  been  raised  at 
different  periods.  At  one  end  was  the  silver  altar  under  which 
lie  the  bones  of  the  popular  saint  Nicholas.  They  must 
repose  in  an  often-replenished  tank,  as  every  pilgrim,  and 
thousands  flock  hither  in  May,  crawls  flat  on  the  ground  to 
the  altar,  and  is  given  a  sip  of  the  Manna  di  San  Niccolo  out 
of  a  small  silver  bucket  which  the  priest  dips  into  the  tomb. 
I  had  been  warned  that  the  manna  was  like  bad  brown  sugar 
and  water,  and  besides  the  bucket  did  not  look  very  clean, 
so  I  declined  tasting  it.  But  when  I  gave  the  priest  a  franc 
he  was  so  pleased  that  he  insisted  on  my  putting  my  head 
into  the  hole  and  looking  down  into  the  watery  grave  of  the 
saint.  I  saw  nothing  of  course,  but  some  pilgrims  who  were 
waiting  for  their  manna  congratulated  me  in  extraordinary 
patois  on  my  good  fortune.  It  was  in  this  crypt  that  Pope 
Urban  II,  unable  to  convince  the  Greek  prelates  as  to  the 
dogma  of  the  Procession  of  the  Holy  Ghost  from  the  Father 
and  the  Son,  called  upon  Anselm,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
to  "  ascend  this  throne  and  defend  thy  mother  Church  whom 
the  Greeks  are  trying  to  overthrow."  Anselm's  eloquence 
deHghted  the  Latins  and  displeased  the  Greeks,  so,  says  old 
Lupo,  "  the  Pope  without  losing  any  more  time,  excommuni- 
cated all  those  who  held  opposite  tenets." 

After  spending  a  few  days  at  Leucaspide,  getting  from 
Sir  James  much  information  and  letters  to  various  station- 
masters,  we  started  for  Lecce,  the  "  Florence  of  Apulia  " 
as  the  inhabitants  fondly  call  their  city,  because  better  Italian 
is  spoken  there  than  elsewhere  in  the  South.  Our  inn  was 
quite  comfortable,  but  the  host  could  not  understand  why 
we  wanted  eggs,  and  bread  and  butter,  and  milk  with  our 
coffee  at  nine  in  the  morning.  Why  did  we  not  drink  black 
coffee  when  we  got  up  and  then  have  a  proper  breakfast  at 
twelve  ?  Surely  we  had  not  learned  such  a  custom  in  Florence  ? 
Florence  was  a  civilized  city  like  Lecce. 


REMINISCENCES  259 

Fortunately  it  rained  hard  in  the  morning,  which  enabled 
us  to  see  a  Leccese  custom  we  should  otherwise  have  missed. 
The  streets  all  sloped  towards  the  middle,  so  after  a  heavy- 
shower  a  broad  and  deep  stream  rushes  along.  We  stood 
in  a  church  door  wondering  how  to  get  across,  when  a  man 
trundled  up  a  long,  broad  plank,  with  two  wheels  at  one  end 
and  feet  at  the  other.  Thus  was  the  water  bridged.  We 
crossed  dry-foot  and  found  two  or  three  of  these  contrivances 
in  every  street  ;  which  I  should  say  are  broad  enough  for 
carriages  to  pass  on  either  side  of  the  wooden  bridges. 

After  seeing  the  cathedral  and  its  very  tall  campanile, 
which  serves  as  a  landmark  for  ships  going  from  Otranto  to 
Brindisi,  the  Prefecture  and  the  church  of  S.  Croce,  both 
one  mass  of  rococo  ornamentation,  we  went  to  San  Nicola  e 
Cataldo.  Built  by  Tancred,  last  of  the  Norman  Counts  of 
Lecce,  before  he  became  King  of  Sicily  in  11 89,  its  beauty 
quite  took  our  breath  away.  I  grieve  to  see  from  Mr.  M,  S. 
Briggs's  exhaustive  book  on  charming  Lecce,  1  that  the  entrance 
doorway  has  been  restored,  i.e.  spoiled,  since  we  were  there. 
On  going  to  the  museum  we  found  it  was  closed,  and  were 
told  the  Duke  Sigismondo  Castromediano  had  the  key,  and 
that  he  lived  some  miles  out  of  Lecce  at  his  half-ruined  castle 
of  Cavallino.  Sir  James  had  told  me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
something  of  the  horrible  imprisonment  the  Duke  had  suffered 
under  Ferdinand  II,  so  I  hushed  my  companions'  exclamations 
of  disappointment  and  wrote  to  ask  for  permission  to  visit 
the  museum  founded  by  him.  He  sent  early  next  morning 
to  say  he  would  meet  us  there  at  ten. 

In  the  doorway  we  found  a  very  tall,  half-blind,  courteous 
old  man,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  secretary  and  surrounded 
by  various  professors,  some  of  whom  had  put  on  tail-coats 
and  white  gloves  in  honour  of  the  visit  of  a  learned  lady. 
I  felt  very  small  in  my  travelling-dress,  and  with  my  absolute 
ignorance  about  Messapian,  Oscan,  and  other  unknown 
languages.  On  thanking  the  Duke  for  his  kindness  in  coming 
to  show  us  the  museum,  he  answered  that  nothing  gave  him 
such  pleasure  as  to  see  an  Englishwoman  ;  he  had  been  so 

1   In  the  Heel  oj  Italy ^  p.  348. 


26o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

kindly  received  when  with  Poerio  and  other  poHtical  exiles 
he  had  taken  refuge  in  England.  We  were  talking  when 
suddenly  he  peered  down  into  my  face.  "  Forgive  me," 
he  said,  "  but  your  voice  recalls  so  strongly  that  of  a  woman, 
no  longer  quite  young  but  very  handsome,  La  Santa  Protetrice 
degli  Emigrati  Santa  Rosa  called  her.  I  cannot  remember 
her  name  ;  her  husband  was  a  great  jurist.  She  was  so  good 
to  us."  "  Signor  Duca,  it  must  have  been  Austin,  and  she 
was  my  grandmother,"  I  answered.  The  old  man  dropped 
my  arm,  saying  :  "  Will  you,  Signora,  grant  me  a  favour  ? 
Will  you  allow  me  to  embrace  you  ?  "  Of  course  I  said  yes, 
and  there,  in  the  Lecce  Museum,  with  those  learned  professors 
of  dead  languages  standing  solemnly  round,  the  Duke  kissed 
me  on  both  cheeks.  I  confess  that  a  lump  came  into  my 
throat.  I  asked  him  later  to  tell  me  about  his  eleven  years' 
imprisonment  and  wrote  down  the  terrible  tale  that  even- 
ing. ^ 

The  Messapian  professor  told  us  we  ought  to  drive  to  Rusce, 
the  ancient  Rhudise  of  which  little  remains,  and  to  observe 
the  tombs  on  our  way,  from  whence  came  many  of  the  hundred 
and  twenty-two  Messapian  inscriptions.  One  of  the  museum 
guards  volunteered  to  go  with  us  and  informed  us  that  Rusce 
was  a  fine  city  long  before  the  fall  of  Troy  and  its  antiquity 
was  proved  by  Malennius  having  made  an  underground 
passage  from  it  to  Lecce.  I  had  no  clear  idea  who  Malennius 
was,  so  looked  wise  and  said,  O  certainly.  I  asked  him  about 
proverbs,  so  with  a  wink  at  my  companions  he  said  there 
was  a  favourite  one,  but  perhaps  the  Signora  would  not  like 
it.  "  La  donna  non  la  sof forth  nepfure  il  diavolo  "  (Even  the 
devil  could  not  stand  a  woman.)  Why  ?  we  asked.  "  Well, 
the  devil  married,  but  his  wife  worried  him  so  much  that 
he  divorced  her  within  a  week.  Now,  Donna  Silvia,  his  old 
grandmother,  cooks  and  keeps  house  for  him,  and  when  he 
is  tired  he  lays  his  head  in  her  lap  and  she  sings  him  to  sleep." 
Carlo  Orsi  laughed  and  remarked  that  he  supposed  Donna 
Silvia  was  a  woman.  "  O  yes,  but  then  she  is  old  and  be- 
longs to  the  family,  so  she  does  not  count."     On  our  way 

'   See  The  Land  of  Manfrtd,  p.  2iS. 


REMINISCENCES  261 

back  we  passed  a  wooden  booth  with  a  big  doll  hanging  out- 
side, so  after  dinner  we  went  to  see  the  marionettes,  paying 
a  halfpenny  each  for  fosti  distinti.  The  play  was  Samson 
with  interludes  of  Pulcinella,  and  when  Delilah,  with  the 
spasmodic,  irresponsible  walk  of  a  marionette,  appeared, 
and  cut  off  Samson's  wig  with  a  large  pair  of  scissors,  applause 
was  loud,  and  shouts  of  :  "  She's  the  hairdresser  for  me," 
"  How  much  a  shave  ?  "  etc.,  resounded.  But  Pulcinella 
was  the  favourite.  Dear  Pulcinella,  dressed  in  white  with 
a  pointed  hat,  came  dancing  on  and  made  violent  love  to 
Delilah,  but  just  as  she  sank  into  his  arms  the  heavy  father 
rushed  in  and  kicked  poor  Pulcinella  off  the  stage. 

Sir  James  had  impressed  on  me  that  Galatina  must  be  seen, 
so  we  determined  to  drive  there  via  Soleto  to  see  Raimondello 
Orsini's  campanile,  built  in  1397.  Very  beautiful  it  was, 
indeed  to  my  mind  one  of  the  most  beautiful  I  had  ever  seen. 
While  Orsi  was  making  a  sketch  we  walked  about  the  town, 
curiously  Eastern-looking  with  its  white,  flat-roofed,  low  houses. 
"  Ah,  you  are  looking  at  the  tomb  of  our  king,"  said  a  man, 
pointing  to  the  campanile  ;  "  he  died  so  long  ago  that  no  one 
knows  his  name."  The  interior  of  a  small  church,  S.  Stefano, 
near  by,  is  covered  with  frescoes  very  Byzantine  in  treatment, 
though  sadly  faded  and  spoiled  they  were  solemn  and  grand. 
But  we  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  Galatina,  about  which  I  had 
heard  so  much,  so  did  not  examine  Soleto  closely.  We  were  not 
disappointed.  The  exterior  of  the  church  of  S.  Caterina  with 
its  three  doors  was  beautiful,  and  the  rose  window  above  the 
middle  one  magnificent.  Inside  it  was  a  perfect  glory  of  colour. 
Round  the  lofty  nave,  the  roof  of  which  is  divided  into  four 
flattish  domes,  runs  a  lambry  frescoed  with  life-size  saints, 
and  the  frescoes  on  the  domes,  particularly  on  the  first  one, 
are  so  exquisite  that  they  recalled  Fra  Angelico.  To  the  right 
of  the  high  altar  is  the  fine  tomb  of  the  founder  Raimondello 
Orsini,  and  by  its  side  is  a  majestic  fresco  of  S.  Catherine, 
in  Norman  costume,  sitting  enthroned  between  two  angels. 
Scenes  from  her  life  are  depicted  round  the  choir.  Behind 
the  high  altar  is  a  lady  chapel  with  eight-ribbed  roof,  built 
by  Raimondello's  son  Gian  Antonio,  for  his  own  magnificent 


/" 


262  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

tomb.  Of  the  two  aisles  on  either  side  of  the  nave,  those  next 
to  it  are  narrow  and  low  like  corridors  ;  in  the  right-hand  one 
the  frescoes,  signed  Franciscus  De  Arecio  fecit  MCCCCXXXV, 
are  much  defaced,  saving  the  portrait  of  Raimondello  clad  in 
armour,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  S.  Anthony.  Professor  Cosimo 
De  Giorgi  of  Lecce  had  given  me  a  letter  to  Cav.  Cavoti, 
inspector  of  monuments,  and  the  sacristan  was  so  ignorant 
that  we  went  to  call  on  him  and  ask  for  information.  At 
first  Signor  Cavoti  was  very  curt,  but  thawed  when  he  heard 
Carlo  Orsi  was  a  painter,  showed  us  some  admirable  copies 
he  had  made  of  the  frescoes  in  the  old  church,  and  offered 
to  go  back  there  with  us.  On  the  way  he  dropped  behind 
with  Orsi  and  asked  anxiously  whether  I  was  a  spy  of  the 
English  Government.  A  woman  who  travelled  about  and 
read  inscriptions  on  old  tombs  was  suspicious.  He  knew 
England  was  a  rich  country  and  someone  might  wish  to  buy 
S.  Caterina,  "  the  glory  of  my  city,"  and  carry  it  away  ;  he 
had  heard  of  such  things.  In  the  end,  however,  we  became 
great  friends. 

Galatina  so  enchanted  us  that  when  we  went  to  lunch 
at  the  small  inn  we  asked  whether  we  could  sleep  there  for 
the  night.  It  was  with  difficulty  we  could  make  the  people 
understand,  but  at  last  they  showed  us  a  long  room  with  five 
beds  in  it  close  together.  Two  were  already  engaged,  and  they 
offered  us  the  other  three.  So  reluctantly  we  had  to  go  back 
to  Lecce  late  in  the  evening,  after  Orsi  had  sketched  what 
he  could  of  S.  Caterina  while  we  walked  about  to  see  the 
strong  walls,  also  built  by  Raimondello  Orsini,  and  some  pretty 
baroque  houses  with  fine  carved  balconies,  in  the  well-paved 
streets.  The  peasants  talk  a  mixture  of  Greek  and  Italian 
patois  of  which  it  was  almost  impossible  to  make  out  a 
word. 

Going  by  train  to  Otranto  from  Lecce  we  suddenly  saw 
a  lake  with  boats  sailing  on  it  just  in  front  of  the  train.  A 
mirage,  I  exclaimed,  at  which  my  companions  laughed,  until 
it  faded  as  we  got  nearer,  when  they  acknowledged  I  was  right. 
One  celebrated  mutate,  or  scangiate,  as  the  people  call  it, 
occurred  in  the  fifteenth  century.     A  Turkish  fleet  was  seen 


REMINISCENCES  263 

all  along  the  coast  from  Mount  Garganus  to  the  Capo  di  Leuca. 
Messengers  were  sent  to  warn  towns  and  forts  of  the  approach 
of  the  dreaded  enemy,  and  the  whole  province  was  put  into 
a  state  of  alarm.  An  old  legend  tells  of  another  when  Manfred 
was  born.  Two  colossal  figures  were  seen  fighting  in  the 
sky  from  sunrise  to  midday  during  a  great  thunderstorm. 
One  suddenly  vanished  ;  the  other  assumed  the  semblance 
of  a  monk  and  was  driven  northwards  by  the  violent 
wind. 

We  were  heartily  welcomed  by  the  station-master,  to  whom 
I  had  a  letter  from  Sir  James.  He  seldom  saw  strangers, 
and  as  only  four  trains  go  to  and  come  from  Lecce  in  the 
twenty-four  hours,  we  were  a  godsend.  The  view  from  the 
ramparts  of  the  great  castle  built  by  Alfonso  of  Aragon  is 
magnificent.  The  day  was  clear,  so  we  saw  the  coast  of  Albania 
some  fifty  miles  across  the  sea  quite  plainly.  At  our  feet  lay 
the  bay,  the  bright  blue  sea  shimmering  in  the  sun,  and  the 
air  was  so  exhilarating  and  light  that  I  rather  scoffed  at  the 
ever-recurring  fear  of  malaria.  "  Wait  till  you  go  down  into 
the  town,"  said  the  station-master;  "up  here  it  is  different." 
A  steep  winding  road  led  down  to  the  shore,  and  then  crossing 
the  dirty  little  stream  Idro,  we  passed  through  a  long  vaulted 
gateway  into  the  town.  Uphill  a  little  way  and  we  were  at 
the  cathedral.  Built  by  Roger,  Duke  of  Calabria  and  ApuHa, 
son  of  Robert  Guiscard,  it  is  unlike  other  churches  hereabouts, 
being  of  the  basilican  type.  The  nave  and  aisles  are  divided 
by  splendid  green  marble  and  Oriental  granite  columns, 
which  came  from  a  temple  of  Minerva  and  Mercury  in  a 
village  near  by.  But  the  noteworthy  thing  is  the  wonderful 
(and  amusing)  mosaic  pavement,  which  is  in  remarkably  good 
preservation,  considering  the  Turks  stabled  their  horses  in 
the  cathedral  after  they  stormed  the  city  and  massacred  the 
inhabitants  in  1480.  A  priest  named  Pantaleone  laid  it  down 
in  1 163,  and  many  pages  would  be  necessary  to  describe  it. 
Cain,  Abel,  Rex  Arturus,  Alexander  Rex,  the  tower  of  Babel, 
queer  animals  with  many  heads  or  many  bodies,  Noah's  Ark 
with  many  animals  walking  in,  while  the  faces  of  Noah  and  his 
wife  at  a  window  are  expressive  of  intense  disgust.    In  the  centre 


264  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

is  a  tree  whose  roots  start  from  the  door,  and  in  one  of  the 
branches  near  the  high  altar  sit  Adam  and  Eve  eating  fruit. 
They  were  pointed  out  eagerly  as  the  monkeys  which  once 
lived  in  Otranto.  The  crypt  is  most  beautiful,  with  its  forty- 
two  pillars  of  various  marbles,  porphyry,  and  Oriental  granite, 
and  capitals  of  diverse  forms,  evidently  the  spoils  of  some 
ancient  temple.  The  station-master  came  to  lunch  with  us, 
and  said  the  memory  of  the  awful  massacre  of  1480  had  never 
faded  from  the  minds  of  the  people  ;  mothers  still  threaten 
their  disobedient  children  saying  : 

"  Li  Turchi  se  la  puozzono  pigliane. 
La  puozzono  portani  a  la  Turchia, 
La  puozzono  fa  Turca  da  Cristiana." 

(May  the  Turks  take  her.  May  they  carry  her  to  Turkey, 
May  they  change  her  from  a  Christian  to  a  Turk.) 

The  huge  stone  cannon-balls  to  be  seen  in  every  street 
no  doubt  also  serve  as  a  reminder.  How  such  enormous  things, 
two  feet  in  diameter,  and  so  many  of  them,  were  brought 
in  the  Turkish  ships,  disembarked,  and  fired,  was  to  me  a 
marvel.  Looking  at  my  watch,  I  lamented  that  we  had  not 
time  to  go  up  again  to  the  castle,  as  the  train  left  at  half- 
past  three.  "  It  cannot  go  without  me,"  observed  our  friend, 
"  the  Signora  can  stay  as  long  as  she  likes ;  it  is  so  pleasant  to 
converse  with  learned  people,"  he  added  with  a  bow.  The 
result  was  that  we  left  the  station  only  at  half-past  four,  and 
when  I  apologized  to  the  one  occupant  of  our  carriage  for 
being  late  owing  to  the  many  beautiful  things  to  be  seen  in 
Otranto,  he  repeated  the  station-master's  words :  Non  f'  efuria 
(there  is  no  hurry). 

We  went  back  to  Leucaspide  for  a  few  days  and  there 
parted  from  our  pleasant  companion  Ambrose  Poynter, 
who  went  to  Naples,  while  Orsi,  I,  and  my  maid  started  for 
Foggia  armed  with  a  letter  to  Signor  Cacciavillani,  the  station- 
master,  who  proved  a  most  valuable  friend  in  need.  In  Foggia, 
a  dirty,  dusty  town,  nothing  remains  of  the  palace  built  by 
Frederick  II,  where  his  second  Empress,  Isabella  of  England, 


REMINISCENCES  265 

died  in  1241,  save  one  ornamental  arch  built  into  the  front 
of  a  house.  But  nine  miles  distant,  across  the  great  rolling 
plain,  lay  Lucera,  where  the  great  Emperor  built  a  splendid 
castle  for  his  faithful  Saracen  troops.  The  massive  walls 
with  many  projecting  towers  crown  the  abruptly  rising  hill, 
and  it  took  us  more  than  twenty  minutes  to  walk  round  the 
inside  of  the  walls.  On  the  eastern  side  are  remains  of  the 
Emperor's  palace,  and  between  it  and  the  largest  circular 
tower  are  ruins  of  the  keep  with  vaulted  corridors,  now  used 
as  stables  for  sheep.  Orsi  was  sketching,  so  I  wandered  through 
one  of  the  double  gateways  and  came  upon  an  old  woman 
with  her  small  grandson,  who  was  extremely  anxious  to  take 
me  down  a  steep  staircase  which  he  declared  led  into  a  sub- 
terranean passage  to  the  town  of  Lucera.  As  I  was  giving 
the  boy  a  franc  his  father  appeared,  a  handsome,  smiling 
shepherd.  But  his  face  suddenly  changed  when  he  saw  the 
money.  He  snatched  it  out  of  the  child's  hand,  held  it  out 
to  me,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Are  we  beggars,  that  you  should 
insult  us  ? "  Begging  his  pardon,  I  said  that  on  the  contrary 
I  was  just  going  to  ask  him  to  give  me  a  present — one  of  his 
queer  wooden  sheep-collars.  With  the  air  of  a  prince  he  gave 
it  to  me,  together  with  the  franc,  so  I  said  I  could  not  accept 
a  present  from  him  if  he  did  not  let  his  boy  take  one  from  me. 
His  old  mother  now  intervened,  and  we  parted  such  good 
friends  that  I  promised  to  go  and  stay  with  them  if  ever  I 
went  to  Campobasso.  As  we  shook  hands  the  shepherd  said  : 
"  I  see  you  are  a  stranger,  you  don't  know  our  ways.  When 
you  come  to  the  Abruzzi  do  not  give  money,  it  offends  us. 
A  shake  of  the  hand  and  a  smile  is  the  payment  we  like,  and," 
he  added  with  a  bow  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  "  the  Signora 
can  smile." 

We  only  saw  the  outside  of  the  cathedral  in  Lucera,  as  the 
Government  railway  engineer  who  was  restoring  it  had  taken 
the  key  away,  so  we  went  to  a  photographer  and  asked  for 
photographs  of  the  castle  and  the  cathedral.  The  man  stared 
at  us  in  astonishment,  and  explained  that  he  was  an  artist 
and  only  did  portraits.  Had  he  any  of  peasants  in  their 
hoHday  dress  ?     Oh  no,  such  people  were  not  fit  subjects ; 


266  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

he  only  did  Signori,  with  the  exception  of  the  carabinieu, 
because  it  was  useful  to  stand  well  with  the  authorities. 

The  next  morning  we  drove  some  six  miles  across  the  great 
plain,  the  tavogliera  delle  Puglie,  passing  many  trai'ni,  or  tall 
carts  with  enormous  wheels  drawn  by  three  mules  or  horses 
abreast.  They  were  full  as  they  could  hold  of  people  pro- 
tected from  the  sun  by  awnings.  The  dust  was  stifling,  and 
one  pitied  the  poor  cafoni,  as  the  peasants  are  called,  toiling 
through  it  on  foot.  Round  the  church  of  the  Incoronata 
is  a  small  oak  wood,  the  last  remnant  of  the  great  Emperor's 
royal  chase,  and  as  it  stands  on  a  hillock  we  could  see  miles 
and  miles  of  the  great  green  plain.  Here  and  there  thin  black 
lines  gradually  grew  into  caravans  of  from  fifteen  to  eighty 
pilgrims,  led  by  a  capo,  or  head-man,  who  carried  the  offerings 
for  the  shrine.  Some  of  them  walk  eighty  miles  or  more  to 
visit  the  Madonna,  then  go  up  to  Monte  Sant'  Angelo  to  salute 
St.  Michael,  and  then  to  Bari  to  the  feast  of  St.  Nicholas. 
Men  and  women  chanted  alternately  as  they  came  in  single 
file  under  the  oak  trees.  Wayworn  and  footsore,  with  long 
staffs  on  which  hung  gourds  of  water,  they  tramped  three 
times  round  the  church  and  then  knelt  in  front  of  the  closed 
door.  The  priests  were  taking  their  siesta,  they  told  us,  so 
we  strolled  among  the  peasants  sitting  on  the  parched  grass. 
A  party  in  full  Abruzzese  costume  were  dancing  the  tarantella; 
they  smiled  at  us,  spread  a  clean  cloth  over  a  pack-saddle, 
and  invited  me  to  sit  down.  My  clothes  interested  them  quite 
as  much  as  theirs  did  me,  and  they  all  talked  at  once,  raising 
their  voices  louder  and  louder  when  they  saw  we  did  not 
understand.  The  capo  came  to  the  rescue;  he  had  been  with 
Garibaldi  and  then  in  the  regular  army  for  two  years.  When 
Galubardo,  as  he  called  him,  was  mentioned,  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  said  to  me,  "  First  comes  the  Madonna,  then  Galu- 
bardo." Orsi  made  some  sketches  of  these  handsome  people, 
who  all  wanted  copies ;  they  thought  it  was  like  photography, 
and  could  not  understand  why  the  Signore  took  so  much 
trouble  to  make  little  lines  on  the  paper  instead  of  doing  it 
with  a  machine — click,  and  it  was  done.  Some  of  the  men  were 
playing  scopa  and  asked  me  whether  I  knew  the  game.    When 


REMINISCENCES  267 

I  said  yes,  they  wanted  to  know  whether  my  luck  was  good  at 
cards.  "  Mine  is  very  bad,"  said  one,  "  and  for  years  I've  been 
looking  for  a  lizard  with  two  tails.  There  is  a  man  at  Naples 
who  is  quite  a  great  g  .ntleman,  I  am  told ;  he  wins  so  much 
money  because  he  has  a  lizard  with  two  tails." 

While  we  were  talking  the  church  doors  had  been  opened, 
and  we  found  them  thronged  with  poor  pilgrims  on  their 
knees  dragging  themselves  towards  the  altar.  Some  women 
were  flat  on  their  stomachs  licking  the  filthy  pavement  as 
they  wriggled  along.  Their  faces  were  soon  such  a  mass  of 
dirt  that  they  no  longer  saw  where  they  were  going,  and  a 
relation  led  them  by  a  handkerchief  held  in  one  hand.  Near 
the  altar  the  pavement  was  streaked  with  blood,  and  it  was 
revolting  to  see  the  swollen,  cut  tongues  of  the  wretched, 
panting  creatures,  sobbing  hysterically  as  they  tried  to  call 
upon  the  Madonna  to  help  them. 

The  usual  legend  is  told  about  the  black  Virgin  of  the 
Incoronata.  Wood-cutters  heard  music  and  looking  up  saw 
angels  adoring  a  picture  in  a  tree.  The  Bishop  of  Foggia 
went  in  procession,  climbed  up  the  tree,  and  took  the  Madonna 
to  the  cathedral.  Three  times  she  fled  from  the  town  and 
returned  to  her  wood,  so  a  church  was  built  for  her  there. 
The  picture  was  covered  with  necklaces,  watch-chains,  rings, 
brooches,  etc.,  and  round  the  altar  were  hung  ex-votos ; 
legs,  arms,  eyes,  ears,  hearts,  in  silver  and  wax,  and  primitive 
little  pictures  of  shipwrecks,  carriage  accidents,  and  fires, 
with  the  black  Madonna  above  who  had  saved  people.  A  man 
who  was  selling  ex-votos  at  the  church  door  offered  me  one, 
and  I  asked  him.  where  he  got  them  from.  "  When  the  pilgrims 
are  gone  the  priests  let  me  buy  back  the  ex-votos  at  one-third 
less  than  their  first  cost  ;  in  this  way,"  he  added,  reverently 
raising  his  hat,  "  the  Madonna  and  I  both  do  good  business." 

Like  other  pilgrims  we  were  bound  for  St.  Michael's  Mount, 
and  Signer  Cacciavillani  said  he  would  go  with  us  to  Man- 
fredonia,  as  he  knew  i.he  innkeeper,  an  originate  who  would 
shut  the  door  in  our  faces  and  leave  us  to  sleep  in  the  street 
if  he  did  not  like  our  iooks.  The  railroad  passed  close  to  the 
ancient  church  S.  Maria  di  Siponto  standing  solitary  in  the 


268  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

green  swamp  which  now  covers  the  site  of  ancient  Sipontum. 
Here  Pope  Alexander  HI  embarked  for  Venice  in  1177, 
and  here  Conrad  was  met  by  his  half-brother  Manfred  in 
1252.  Manfred  was  so  struck  with  the  intense  malaria  that 
when  he  became  King  he  built  a  new  city  some  miles  away, 
moved  all  the  inhabitants,  and  called  it  Manfredonia.  Charles 
of  Anjou  in  vain  tried  to  change  the  name  to  Novo  Siponto 
after  Manfred's  death. 

Don  Michele  Rosarii  de  Tosquez,  host  of  the  inn  at  Man- 
fredonia, was  dehghtful.  He  held  the  lamp  up  to  my  face, 
then  put  it  down,  slapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  said : 
^u  mi  fiacc^  (thou  pleasest  me).  When  Signer  Cacciavillani 
asked  him  to  prepare  his  famous  fish  soup,  he  rushed  off  to 
give  the  order,  and  waited  upon  us  himself  at  dinner,  pro- 
ducing a  bottle  of  good  old  wine,  w-hich  we  invited  him  to 
share  with  us.  So  he  sat  down  and  told  us  his  story.  "  I 
am  a  Baron,  but  an  innkeeper  can't  call  himself  Baron,  though 
I  only  keep  an  inn  for  people  who  please  me  and  know  how  to 
behave.  My  ancestors  were  Spaniards  and  I  was  born  at  Troia  ; 
but  when  I  was  a  small  child  the  brigands  came,  burnt  the 
masseria,  hung  my  father  from  the  pigeon  tower,  and  killed 
my  two  elder  brothers.  My  mother  died  of  fright.  Curse 
them,"  he  exclaimed,  bringing  his  fist  down  heavily  on  the 
table,  "  that  ruined  us." 

All  night  we  heard  the  pilgrims  pass  chanting  hymns  in 
honour  of  the  archangel,  and  early  next  morning  we  found 
an  excellent  carriage  with  three  stalwart  horses  waiting  to 
take  us  up  the  mountain.  Don  Michele  brought  a  basket 
with  food  and  wine,  and  put  in  some  silver  forks  and  a  fine 
old  Spanish  silver  mug.  I  remonstrated,  said  I  could  not 
walk  about  all  day  with  a  mug  in  one  hand  and  forks  in  another, 
and  that  they  would  certainly  be  stolen.  "  Stolen  !  Nobody 
steals  here.  My  Signora  shall  not  drink  out  of  other  people's 
dirty  glasses."  We  were  smothered  in  dust  during  the  three 
miles'  drive  to  the  foot  of  Lo  Sperone  d'  Italia  (The  Spur  of 
Italy),  as  the  end  of  Mount  Garganus  is  called.  The  zigzag 
road  up  was  admirably  engineered  and  at  every  turn  we 
crossed  the  long  line  of  pilgrims  toiling  up  the  mule  path. 


REMINISCENCES  269 

once  trodden  by  popes  and  emperors.  Some  were  reciting 
litanies  in  honour  of  S.  Michael,  others  were  singing  rispetti  ; 
one  of  which  I  learnt  from  some  peasants  who  had  come  all 
the  way  from  Benevento  (we  walked  up  a  short  cut  with  them 
to  save  the  horses  at  a  very  steep  pull)  : — 

"A  1'  Angelo  di  Puglia  voglio  ine, 
Vutu  pe  te,  Nennella,  voglio  fane, 
Scavezo  e  scaruso  a  lu  camminane, 
La  turnatella  nun  ce,  magniamu  pane, 
Chiunque  m'  afFronta  dice  :  povero  meschino  ! 
Sta  penitenza  chi  te  la  fa  fane  ? 
Me  la  fa  fane  na  donna  crurela, 
Stu  core  nun  e  boluto  cuntentane." 

(To  the  Angel  of  Apulia  I  will  go,  Prayers  for  thee,  Nennella, 
will  I  say.  Breakneck  and  stony  is  the  road  I  walk  on.  There 
is  no  turnatella,  so  we  eat  bread.  Whoso  meets  me  says  : 
Poor  wretch !  Who  has  laid  this  penance  on  thee  ?  A  cruel 
woman  has  made  me  do  it.  She  has  refused  to  content  my 
heart.) 

Monte  Sant'  Angelo  to  our  surprise  was  quite  a  big  town, 
and  the  people  were  fair  with  brilliant  complexions.  No 
Saracen  or  Greek  blood  had  tinged  their  hair  or  sallowed  their 
cheeks.  The  men  walked  with  the  air  of  conquerors.  Their  dress 
was  jaunty  and  picturesque — short  brown  velveteen  jackets, 
brown  cloth  waistcoats  with  bright  buttons,  black  velveteen 
breeches,  and  black  worsted  stockings  tied  under  the  knee  with 
a  bunch  of  black  ribbons ;  while  round  their  waists  were  dark 
blue  girdles.  This  costume  was  crowned  by  a  dark  blue 
knitted  cap,  vvdth  a  sky-blue  floss-silk  tassel,  worn  quite  on  the 
back  of  the  head.  These  caps  were  peculiar,  and  a  young  fellow, 
seeing  me  look  at  them,  took  his  off,  pulled  it  out  to  a  bag 
two  feet  long,  which  he  neatly  folded  up,  plait  after  plait, 
until  it  again  became  a  small  cup-shaped  cap.  I  then  saw 
that  the  men  shaved  the  backs  of  their  heads,  leaving  the  hair 
in  front  to  be  brushed  up  and  frizzed  out  like  that  of  a  fashion- 
able lady. 

We  followed  the  crowd  of  pilgrims  to  where  two  beautiful 


270  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Gothic  arched  doors — one  of  them  surmounted  by  a  bas-rehef 
of  the  Virgin  and  Child  with  two  saints  and  the  inscription 
Terribilis  Est  Locus  Iste.  Hie  Domus  Dei  Est  Et  Porta  Coeli — 
led  into  a  large  vaulted  hall.  From  there  a  long,  dark,  winding 
staircase,  partly  cut  in  the  rock,  with  pointed  arches,  took  us 
into  a  small  courtyard.  I  thought  we  never  should  have 
got  down.  The  crowd  was  dense,  and  at  every  step  the 
pilgrims  stopped  to  pray  and  to  scratch  the  outlines  of  their 
hands  or  feet  on  the  walls  or  the  steps — per  devozione,  they  told 
me.  One  young  fellow  was  most  anxious  to  cut  the  shape 
of  my  foot  with  his  knife,  "  only  it  would  be  better  for  the 
soul  of  the  Signora  if  she  did  it  herself."  The  courtyard  has 
evidently  been  a  graveyard  ;  two  fine  tombs  bore  the  date 
1407.  The  church  was  reached  by  steps  which  the  pilgrims 
ascended  on  their  knees,  until  they  reached  the  magnificent 
bronze  doors  made  by  Pantaleone  of  Amalfi  in  Constantinople 
in  1076,  with  the  hfe  of  S.  Michael  in  twenty-four  compart- 
ments in  niello  work.  There  were  many  inscriptions  on  the 
doors,  but  the  crowd,  all  trying  to  shake  the  great  ornamental 
rings  on  them,  was  so  great  that  I  could  only  spell  out  two. 
One  was  quaint,  and  I  wished  the  priests  had  obeyed  its 
behest,  for  I  had  to  rub  the  niello  work  hard  with  my  glove, 
when  it  shone  out  like  jewels. 

Rogo  et  Adjuro  Rectores  Sancti  Angeli  Micha.  ut  Semel  in 
Anno  Dctergere  Faciatio  has  Portas  Sicuti  Nos  nunc  Ostendere 
Fecimus  ut  Sint  Semper  Lucide  et  Clare. 

(I  pray  and  adjure  the  priests  of  S.  Michael  to  cleanse  these 
doors  every  year  in  the  manner  which  I  have  shown,  so  that 
they  may  shine  forth  bright  and  clear.) 

A  canon  pushed  through  the  crowd  and  said  :  "  The  Signora 
must  be  English,  they  always  copy  old  things  other  people 
don't  look  at ;  these  are  difficult  to  read."  I  begged  him  to  be 
good  enough  to  read  one  higher  up,  but  he  answered  that  he 
was  too  much  occupied  and  bade  us  follow  him  to  a  long 
counter  at  the  entrance  behind  which  sat  five  priests,  counting 
up  the  money  given  by  the  pilgrims.  He  told  them  we  were 
to  be  admitted  at  any  hour,  even  during  the  siesta,  "  because 
the   Signora  is   a   learned   person   who    knows   all   languages, 


REMINISCENCES  271 

both  living  and  dead,  and  un  illustrazione  del  suo  ■paese^''  an 
honour  to  her  country,  as  we  should  say.  Whereupon  the 
five  priests  got  up  and  made  me  a  profound  bow,  to  the 
surprise  of  the  people  round.  Orsi  whispered  to  me, 
"  That  means  ten  francs  at  least " — not  dear  for  such 
glorification. 

The  church  was  a  most  extraordinary  building.  Half 
of  the  huge  nave  was  the  original  cavern,  untouched  by  the 
hand  of  man,  the  other  half  was  in  masonry  with  Gothic 
windows.  It  must  have  been  very  dark  at  ordinary  times. 
When  we  saw  it  the  irregular  rock  above  the  high  altar  was 
lit  up  by  hundreds  of  wax  candles,  whose  flickering  seemed  to 
make  the  statue  of  S.  Michael,  about  three  feet  high  with 
pink  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls,  move  its  large  white  wings, 
tipped  with  gold.  A  priest  told  me  it  was  a  wonderful  work 
of  art  ;  he  could  not  remember  whether  Donatello,  Raphael, 
or  Michelangelo  made  it,  but  probably  the  latter,  "  because 
of  the  name." 

We  left  the  church  by  a  narrow  staircase  behind  the  counter 
where  the  five  priests  were  arranging  their  coppers  into  little 
piles.  It  led  up  to  a  balcony  overhanging  the  courtyard 
by  which  we  had  entered.  A  steep  flight  of  steps  took  us  on 
to  the  roof  of  the  holy  cavern,  covered  with  outlines  of  feet 
and  hands,  where  an  old  oak  tree  in  one  corner  was  hung  all  over 
with  stones  with  a  hole  bored  through  the  middle — another 
devozione  of  the  pilgrims.  More  steep  steps  led  us  into  the 
street  near  the  fine  octagonal  campanile  built  by  Charles  of 
Anjou,  which  Orsi  sat  down  to  draw  and  soon  had  a  crowd 
round  him.  I  asked  where  the  inn  was,  as  we  were  hungry. 
"  Inn  !  there  is  no  inn,"  several  voices  answered  at  once. 
Then  the  same  young  man  who  had  shown  me  his  cap 
said  'we  might  come  to  his  aunt's  house  which  was  to  let. 
The  house  was  empty,  but  kind  neighbours  soon  brought 
a  table  and  chairs,  while  Orsi  went  to  fetch  the  basket  from 
the  carriage.  We  invited  our  young  friend  and  his  aunt  to 
lunch,  and  she  was  most  pressing  that  I  should  take  her  house. 
"  Fifty  francs  a  year,  five  rooms  and  a  kitchen,  fine  air,  good 
water,  and  the  gran  divertimento   (great   amusement)   of  the 


272  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

pilgrimages  in  May  and  in  September,  what  can  you  want 
more  ?  "  She  might  have  added  the  view,  which  was  glorious. 
Nobody  would  accept  a  present,  so  Orsi,  my  maid,  and  I  shook 
hands  with  dozens  of  smiling  people  who  declared  they  would 
never  forget  such  pleasant  pilgrims. 

Don  Michele  had  a  capital  supper  ready  for  us  and  was 
quite  indignant  at  the  impudence  of  the  old  woman  who 
had  offered  us  her  house.  "  Live  at  Monte  Sant'  Angelo  ! 
Up  in  the  clouds  !    That  is  no  place  for  the  Signora.^ 

Next  morning  when  I  asked  for  the  bill  Don  Michele  gave 
me  a  long  slip  of  paper  ;  meat,  fish,  bread,  a  chicken,  eggs,  salt, 
pepper,  coffee,  etc.,  were  written  down,  but  no  rooms,  candles, 
or  attendance.  The  sum  was  so  absurdly  small  that  I  said 
there  must  be  some  mistake.  "  That  is  what  I  have  spent  in 
the  market  for  the  Signora.  Did  I  not  tell  you  I  kept  an  inn 
for  my  own  pleasure  ?  If  you  will  give  me  a  franc  with  a  hole 
in  it  to  hang  on  my  watch-chain  I  shall  say  thank  you — nothing 
else."  Orsi  grasped  the  situation,  pretended  he  had  forgotten 
something,  ran  upstairs  and  gave  Don  Michele's  daughter  a 
good  present.  Afterwards  I  heard  from  Signor  Cacciavillani 
that  our  host  had  written  to  ask  for  my  address,  in  order  to 
send  back  the  money,  and  had  sworn  never  more  to  take  in 
EngHsh  people  who  insulted  him  by  paying  for  their  rooms, 
as  though  he  kept  an  inn  for  their  convenience  and  not  for 
his  own  pleasure. 

We  passed  through  Foggia  again  on  our  way  to  Benevento, 
where  we  found  another  rather  funny  inn.  The  Locanda  di 
Benevento  did  not  possess  a  fire-place,  and  my  demand  for 
hot  water  was  disconcerting  to  the  handsome  young  waiter 
Nicola.  He  rushed  across  the  street  and  brought  me  some 
in  a  coffee-pot  from  the  Stella  d'  Italia,  where  we  were  to  go 
and  dine.  A  disconsolate  party  were  eating  maccheroni 
simply  boiled,  without  even  a  little  cheese  for  flavour,  and 
drinking  water.  We  soon  discovered  that  they  were  actors 
whose  manager  had  disappeared  leaving  them  penniless. 
They  eyed  our  dinner  so  hungrily  that  I  told  the  host  to  give 
them  a  big  dish  of  beefsteaks  and  some  flasks  of  wine.  Their 
spirits  rose,  they  made  verses  in  our  honour  and  declared  they 


REMINISCENCES  273 

could  face  the  world  better  now  that  their  stomachs  were 
full.  When  we  went  back  to  our  inn  a  civil  old  woman  came 
forward  and  asked  me  whether  I  did  not  think  her  husband 
very  handsome.  I  must  have  looked  blank,  for  she  disappeared, 
and  then  returned  holding  Nicola  by  one  ear,  "  There,  is  he 
not  handsome,  look  at  him,"  she  said  with  pride.  Nicola 
seemed  very  fond  of  his  ancient  wife,  who  was  old  enough  to 
be  his  mother. 

Benevento  was  a  most  extraordinary  jumble  of  ancient 
splendour  and  modern  squalor.  Miserable  hovels  had  door- 
ways of  verd  antique  or  of  cipolino,  and  at  one  street  corner 
a  rose-coloured  marble  column  had  been  placed  to  protect 
lath  and  plaster  from  passing  carts.  Cippi,  broken  capitals, 
bas-reliefs,  garlands,  and  sometimes  marble  heads,  had  been 
used  as  building  material.  Fortunately  the  splendid  triumphal 
arch  of  Trajan  was  intact.  Near  the  great  castle  built  by 
Pope  John  XXII  we  offended  the  porter  of  the  adjoining 
Prefecture  by  laughing  heartily  at  a  most  drunken-looking 
lion,  with  his  tongue  lolling  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth, 
perched  on  an  octagon  marble  pillar  covered  with  delicate 
arabesques.  The  porter  came  up  and  said  :  "  Let  me  tell 
you  this  is  a  beautiful  antique,  extremely  ancient ;  it  is  the 
emblem  of  the  majesty  of  Benevento.  There  is  nothing 
to  laugh  at."  Feeling  humbled,  we  went  on  to  the  church 
of  S.  Sophia  and  S.  Juvenalis  (740-774).  As  usual,  bits  of 
Roman  sculpture  and  inscriptions  turned  upside  down  had 
been  employed  in  the  building.  Of  the  ancient  Longobard 
cathedral  hardly  anything  remained,  and  earthquakes  have 
played  havoc  vdth  the  building  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries.  The  great  bronze  doors  are  very  inferior  to  those 
at  Trani,  but  the  antique  columns  sustaining  the  nave  and 
the  four  aisles  are  very  fine  and  the  ambones  are  of  great 
beauty.  On  the  square  mediaeval  campanile  is  the  famous 
bas-relief  of  the  boar  with  a  garland  on  his  head  and  a  priest's 
stole  on  his  back.  His  "  wife,"  La  femmina  del  Porco  nostra, 
was  pointed  out  to  us  outside  the  church  of  S.  Maria  delle 
Grazie — a  formless  beast  of  Egyptian  granite  which  may  be 
a  God  Apis  or  a  hippopotamus. 


274  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

But  we  had  come  to  Benevento  to  sec  the  field  of  battle 
where  Manfred 

"  Lo  cavalero  piu  fino, 
Ch'  e  fiore  Ghibellina 
Sovr'  ogn'  altro  latino," 

as  an  old  Sienese  sings,  lost  his  life.  The  road  to  Ponte  Leb- 
brosi,  two  arches  of  which  look  almost  Etruscan — huge  blocks 
of  stone  well  fitted  without  cement — goes  through  an  old  burial- 
ground,  past  the  little  church  of  S.  Cosimo.  Close  to  the  bridge 
was  the  cairn  of  the  unfortunate  son  of  the  great  Emperor. 
A  wild  rose  was  growing  out  of  it,  the  soft  pink  flowers  trailing 
on  the  grey  stones,  on  one  of  which  sat  a  shepherd  boy,  drawing 
long,  sweet  notes  like  those  of  a  nightingale  out  of  what  looked 
like  a  straight  twig  of  poplar.  I  asked  him  first  whether  he 
had  ever  heard  of  Manfred.  "  Oh  yes,  he  was  a  King's  son, 
but  the  witches  had  carried  him  off."  Then  I  asked  him  about 
his  pipe.  "  E  lu  fisch^  de  la  ■primaver''  "  (it  is  the  pipe  of  spring), 
he  answered,  "I've  just  made  it.  To-morrow  it  will  be  dead; 
it  is  a  pity  one  can  only  have  them  for  a  short  time — two — 
three  weeks."  A  straight  twig  of  poplar  or  of  fig  is  cut  before 
the  leaves  are  out,  about  two  feet  long,  and  the  bark  is  gradually 
worked  off  entire.  The  mouthpiece,  cut  from  the  thicker  end, 
is  stuck  in  and  the  tone  is  modulated  by  the  finger  of  the 
right  hand  at  the  bottom  of  the  thin  end.  I  bought  the  pipe, 
and  when  we  got  back  discovered  that  Nicola,  besides  being 
good  to  look  at,  could  sing,  play  the  guitar  and  lu  fisch.  So 
after  dinner  we  had  a  musical  party — Nicola,  his  cousin,  and 
a  friend.  They  described  and  sang  part  of  a  curious  masquerade 
which  is  sung  and  acted  at  carnival  time,  /  dudici  misi  (The 
twelve  months).  Each  month  had  its  song  and  dance.  Carlo 
Orsi  and  I  sang  some  Tuscan  Stornelli,  and  my  maid  showed 
them  how  the  Tuscan  peasants  dance  the  Trescone. 

I  enquired  in  vain  for  the  famous  walnut  tree,  trysting- 
place  of  the  witches,  and  was  told  it  had  been  cut  down  by 
S.  Barbato  when,  helped  by  his  disciple  the  Duchess  Theo- 
dorada,  he  destroyed  the  golden  two-headed  dragon  wor- 
shipped by  Duke  Romuald  (about  660).     According  to  Nicola, 


REMINISCENCES  275 

witches  were  still  plentiful  in  Benevento  ;  he  told  us  of  a 
hunchback  who  met  a  large  party  one  night  singing,  "  Welcome 
Thursday  and  welcome  Friday."  He  answered,  "  Welcome 
Saturday  and  Sunday  too."  They  laughed  and  invited  him 
to  dance,  when  the  women  pulled  off  his  hump,  played  at  ball 
with  it,  and  then  kicked  it  out  of  sight.  When  he  returned 
home  his  wife  refused  to  let  him  in,  and  he  had  to  leave  the 
town.  A  woman  who  wants  to  become  a  witch  takes  a  familiar 
spirit,  a  Martinetto,  who  gives  her  an  ointment.  "  When  she 
puts  some  on  her  forehead  she  can  do  much  harm,"  said 
Nicola,  crossing  himself,  "  it  is  better  not  to  offend  her." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

"y  OT  being  able  to  get  the  books  I  wanted  in  Florence 
about  the  Hohenstaufen,  I  determined  to  go  to 
London    and   read   in   the    British    Museum,     I 
wrote  to  tell  Eothen,  who  had  been  ill,  that   I 
should  come  to  see  him  at  Richmond.    He  answered  : — 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 

7  Park  Villa  West,  Richmond  Hill,  May  24,  1888. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

Your  nice,  kind,  animating  letter  was  very  welcome 
to  me.  It  did  me  good  to  hear  what  Murray  says  of  the  Apulia. 
It  is  really  very  high  praise,  for  I  suppose  that  '  Dicky  Ford  ' 
(to  whom  he  compares  you)  must  have  been  his  very  ideal  of 
a  traveller,  knowing  how  to  write  with  freshness  and  power. 

I  am  very  glad  too  to  hear  that  Henry  Reeve  approves  of 
the  Three  Generations.  From  him,  even  if  only  looked  at 
as  a  moral  sanction,  the  judgment  is  equal  to  a  Papal  '  im- 
primatur.' 

You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  Janet,  in  warning  me  against 
being  desceuvre,  but  how  you  will  be  able  to  save  me  from 
becoming  thus  '  stranded  '  I  don't  yet  see.  Is  not  this  a  touch- 
ing story  in  illustration  of  what  you  say  ?  The  great  Eltchi 
Lord  Stratford  de  Redclife,  after  his  retirement  from  diplo- 
macy was  travelling  with  his  family  and  found  himself  at 
Rome.  Naturally,  he  passed  some  of  his  time  at  the  British 
Embassy,  and  there,  one  day,  confessing  his  desire  for  work, 
work,  work,  he   suddenly  said  :    '  Do,  do,  give   me  something 

to  copy.' 

276 


REMINISCENCES  277 

Of  course,  my  dear  Janet,  I  have  always  meant  you  to  have 
any  copy  you  might  do  me  the  honour  to  wish  for  of  books 
attempted  by  poor  dear  me  (who  was  never  in  your  eyes  a 
grave  historian  or  indeed  a  grave  anything  else),  and  this  time 
if  you  are  in  the  humour  to  load  yourself  with  volumes  of 
mine,  I  shall  be  proud. 

The  prospect  of  your  coming  to  see  me  is  indeed  delightful. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

A.    W.    KiNGLAKE." 

On  the  way  to  London  I  stopped  a  few  days  in  Paris  to  see 
various  friends  and  wrote  to  my  husband  : — 

'Janet  Ross  to  Henry  James  Ross. 

13  Rue  d'Alger,  Paris,  13  June,  1888. 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  letter  and  enclosures.  I  write 
down  what  I  remember  of  dear  old  St.  Hilaire's  talk,  with 
whom  I  dined  the  night  before  last,  as  I  think  it  may  amuse 
you.  I  told  him  that  among  my  grandmother's  letters  to  him 
I  had  found  one  in  which  she  calls  him  her  beloved  brother, 
and  therefore  I  claimed  to  be  his  grandniece.  He  adopted 
me  enthusiastically,  and  rather  sadly  said  he  had  no  family — 
no  relations.  '  I  was  too  poor  to  marry  as  a  young  man,'  he 
added  with  a  sigh.  About  Boulanger  St.  Hilaire  said  :  '  He 
is  being  run  by  Mr,  Bennett  of  the  New  Tork  Herald,  the 
proprietor  of  the  Grand  Magasin  du  Louvre,  and  Madame 
Arnaud  de  I'Arriege.  The  speech  he  made  the  other  day 
was  written  for  him  by  M.  Naquet,  and  he  did  not  know  it 
properly.  He  came  to  the  Chambre  dressed  as  though  for  a 
wedding  and  much  perfumed.  When  Minister  of  War  the 
first  thing  he  did  was  to  abolish  the  ten  o'clock  rentree  of  the 
sous-officiers  and  to  allow  them  to  remain  out  of  barracks 
till  one  in  the  morning  ;  to  permit  the  soldiers  to  wear  their 
be  rds  as  they  pleased  and  to  smoke  in  the  streets.  In  private 
life  his  conduct  is  said  to  be  licentious.' 

To-night  I  dine  with  Guichard,  so  shall  probably  hear  the 


278  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

other  side  about  Boulanger,  that  is  if  he  agrees  with  his  sister, 
Madame  Arnaud.  The  impression  here,  as  far  as  I  can  gather, 
is  that  the  good-looking  general  is  nul. 

St.  Hilaire  then  talked  about  M.  Thiers,  whose  power  of 
work  he  said  was  prodigious.  He  and  St.  Hilaire  were  always 
up  and  at  work  every  morning  at  five,  and  often  the  latter 
worked  all  night.  Thiers  used  to  undress  and  go  to  bed  for 
a  hour  and  a  half  before  dinner,  and  he  had  that  enviable 
faculty  of  sleeping  when  he  wished.  '  I  was  called  one  day 
during  a  Council  to  give  some  explanations,'  said  our  old 
friend,  '  and  sat  at  the  right  hand  of  M.  Thiers.  I  had  been 
working  for  two  whole  nights  and  fell  fast  asleep  during  the 
discussion.  M.  Thiers  woke  me  and  explained  to  the  ministers, 
Messieurs,  fardonnez  a  ce  -pauvre  St.  Hilaire;  je  ne  ferais  fas  le 
quart  du  travail  si  je  n'avais  point  cet  ami  si  devoue.  That 
repaid  me,'  added  St.  Hilaire,  with  a  proud  smile.  He  went  on 
to  mention  other  public  men.  Freycinet  he  described  as 
having  been  first  a  Bonapartist  enrage,  then  a  Republican, 
then  a  Gambettist,  and  now  again  a  Republican.  An  admir- 
able orator,  cleverish  and  unscrupulous,  he  it  is  who  ruined 
the  French  finances  with  his  railway  schemes,  which  cost 
the  nation  many  milliards.  Carnot,  honnete  homme  et  scrupuleux, 
mais  sans  initiative,  was  incapable  of  putting  the  adminis- 
tration into  order,  which  then  went  to  the  devil  under  Grevy, 
who  never  occupied  himself  with  anything  and  allowed  his 
son-in-law  to  trifote  in  all  kinds  of  schemes  and  to  disgrace 
the  Elys^e.  The  state  of  France  our  old  friend  considers 
precarious.  War  is  impossible,  as  though  there  are  more 
men  and  materiel  than  under  Napoleon,  the  nation  is  absolutely 
unprepared.  Boulanger,  he  went  on,  has  three  things  in  his 
favour.  First,  he  represents  the  party  of  revanche  a  tout  frix, 
which  is  small,  but  noisy.  Secondly,  he  is  supported  by  the 
many  malcontents  who  think  anything  would  be  better  than 
the  actual  state  of  things.  Thirdly,  there  is  no  man  of  real 
eminence,  and  he  is  a  good  figure-head,  being  tall,  good- 
looking,  and  profuse  in  promises. 

St.  Hilaire  is  vigorous  as  ever  in  talk,  but  is  rather  bent  and 
looks  older  than  when  we  last  met.     He  saw  Henry  Reeve  in 


REMINISCENCES  279 

Paris  not  long  ago,  and  I  know  it  will  please  you  to  hear  that 
the  great  Henry  told  him  the  Three  Generations  was  an 
excellent  piece  of  work,  and  that  he  doubted  whether,  with 
all  his  experience  with  the  Greville  Memoirs,  he  could  have 
done  it  better  (I  had  sent  Reeve  the  proofs  to  look  over). 
Our  dear  old  friend  complimented  me  on  my  travaux  plus  que 
viriles — you  can  hear  him  say  that — and  has  given  me  his 
two  new  volumes  of  Aristotle  (which  had  never  been  translated 
into  French).  To-morrow  I  go  with  him  to  hear  a  debate  in 
the  Senate.  Leon  Say  made,  it  seems,  a  splendid  speech  yester- 
day, and  the  Government  was  beaten  hollow.  St.  Hilaire 
told  me  to  go  and  see  the  marvellous  things  in  the  Louvre 
from  the  palace  of  Darius  at  Susa,  dug  up  by  M.  and  Mad. 
Dieulafoy. 

14  June.  This  morning  I  went  to  the  Louvre.  You  must 
go  there  next  time  you  are  in  Paris.  There  are  the  sides  of  a 
great  hall,  all  glazed  tiles  in  high  relief  of  the  most  wonderful 
colour.  Lions,  a  procession  of  archers,  and  part  of  a  staircase. 
The  figures  are  quite  half  life  size,  and  the  whole  thing  takes 
one's  breath  away.  It  will  interest  you  immensely  as  you 
know  all  that  country.  The  debate  in  the  Senate  was  not  ex- 
citing, but  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  M.  Leon  Say,  who 
welcomed  me  as  a  cousin.  You  know,  or  probably  you  don't 
know,  that  a  Say  married  a  Taylor.  He  is  very  pleasant  and 
has  a  nice  voice.  In  the  evening  I  dined  with  Guichard, 
who  evidently  does  not  share  his  sister's  admiration  of  Bou- 
langer.  C^est  un  farceur,  he  said,  qui  a  deshonore  notre 
armee  en  voulantfaire  de  la  politique.  II  n'a  pas  le  sou  et  depense 
200,000  francs  par  an.  M.  Brisson  was  at  dinner,  and  after 
Guichard  telling  me  that  he  would  certainly  be  President  some 
day  I  was  disappointed  in  him.  Stiif  and  cold  in  manner,  he  did 
not  strike  me  as  a  man  who  would  ever  make  any  great  mark. 
I  told  Guichard  afterwards  that  he  would  make  a  far  better 
President  than  his  friend  M.  Brisson. 

Day  after  to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  London,  from  whence  I 

shall  write  again. 

Your  affectionate 

Janet." 


/ 


28o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  passed  a  fortnight  with  our  old  friend  Miss  Courtenay  in 
London,  and  Sir  Charles  Newton  introduced  me  to  Dr.  Garnett 
at  the  British  Museum.  He  was  very  kind,  gave  me  a  table 
in  his  own  room,  and  had  the  books  I  wanted  brought  there. 
So  I  was  quite  happy.  But  before  I  had  finished  my  work 
Eothen  wanted  me  at  Richmond.  It  made  me  very  sad  to 
see  how  feeble  he  had  become,  but  the  old  charm  of  talk  and 
manner  was  the  same.  Luckily  it  was  fine  weather,  so  we  were 
able  to  sit  on  the  terrace  and  talk.  Among  other  stories  he 
told  me  an  excellent,  but  probably  unintentional  witticism 
of  the  Queen's.  After  dinner  she  went  up  to  the  Due  de 
Nemours,  who  was  always  somewhat  of  a  poseur,  and  asked 
him  to  join  in  a  round  game.  The  Duke  answered  :  Merci, 
Madame,  je  joue  qu'avec  les  amies.  The  Queen  then  said  : 
Mais  le  Due  de  fVellmgton  y  est. 

From  Richmond  I  went  to  see  Miss  North  in  her  new  home 
at  Alderley,  where  she  had  made  a  wonderful  garden.  She 
wanted  some  water-plants  for  a  pond,  so  with  Sambo,  the 
black  retriever,  I  went  down  to  the  ruins  of  Monks-mill. 
A  brawling  stream  edged  with  blue  forget-me-nots,  golden 
kingcups,  purple  loosestrife,  bulrushes,  and  water-weeds, 
amongst  which  water-hens  scuttled  away  as  Sambo  dashed 
after  them,  flowed  through  a  meadow.  Opening  a  five- 
barred  gate  into  a  field,  I  saw  a  grey  wall  to  the  right  with  a 
tangle  of  white  roses  flung  over  it.  Another  gate  led  through 
a  deserted  garden  to  a  house  whose  porch  was  overgrown 
with  jasmine  and  pink  roses.  After  knocking  at  the  door  I 
pushed  it  open  and  found  the  house  as  deserted  as  the  garden. 
Pretty  old-fashioned  paper  covered  the  walls,  and  anyone  with 
a  talent  for  concocting  ghost  stories  might  have  given  their 
fancy  full  play.  The  tapping  of  a  bough  against  the  window 
made  Sambo  bark  and  rush  out  after  an  imaginary  enemy, 
so  I  followed  him  to  the  ruined  mill  close  by.  I  returned  with 
a  basket  full  of  water-plants  and  gave  Miss  North  a  glowing 
description  of  the  place,  which  took  the  fancy  of  another  of 
her  guests,  as  the  following  letter  shows  ; — 


REMINISCENCES  281 


Marianne  North  to  Janet  Ross. 

Mount  House,  Alderley,  September  15,  1888. 

"  Dearest  Janet, 

I  have  a  delightful  houseful.  A.  R.  Wallace  and  his 
wife,  the  F.  Galtons,  and  a  New  Zealand  cousin.  I  am  trying 
to  find  a  cottage  for  Mr.  Wallace,  he  would  be  a  most  delightful 
neighbour.  Like  you  he  took  a  great  fancy  to  Monks-mill, 
and  if  our  conservative  General  [Hale]  had  not  been  so  deter- 
mined to  keep  it  as  it  is,  would  have  made  a  nice  place  of  it. 
The  house  is  so  dry  that  the  paper  on  the  walls  you  liked  so 
much  looks  quite  good  enough  after  so  many  years.  The  mill 
Mr.  Wallace  wanted  to  turn  partly  into  a  rock-garden,  throwing 
the  walls  down  inside — so  as  not  to  have  the  cost  of  carting 
away — filling  up  some  of  the  holes,  and  gaining  a  south  wall 
for  fruit  and  other  delicate  things  to  grow  under.  It  would 
have  been  a  nice  end  to  your  romance  to  have  the  greatest 
of  our  English  naturalists  there.  But  Mrs.  Wallace  was  glad 
when  the  General's  ultimatum  came,  for  she  would  have  been 
very  lonely,  and  he  is  too  near  seventy  for  such  a  work.  .  .  . 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Marianne  North." 

When  I  returned  to  London  I  went  back  to  the  British 
Museum,  but  was  stopped  at  the  glass  door  leading  to  Dr. 
Garnett's  rooms.  Alas,  my  kind  friend  had  gone  away  for  his 
holiday.  So  I  went  to  the  centre  of  the  great  reading-room 
and  asked  humbly  for  my  books.  "  Look  out  the  numbers 
in  the  catalogue,"  was  the  answer.  I  asked  where  the  catalogue 
was  and  the  man  waved  his  arm  in  a  circle.  Thinking  this 
meant  somewhere  in  the  bookcases  round  the  room,  I  spent 
much  time  in  looking  for  it,  and  then  went  back  and  asked 
again  where  it  was.  He  pointed  down,  and  at  last  I  found 
what  I  wanted,  wrote  down  names  and  numbers,  and  went 
back.     "  Put  your  papers  into  that  basket,"  said  the  autocrat. 


282  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Seeing  a  big  basket  not  far  off,  I  deposited  my  papers,  sat 
down  at  a  desk,  and  waited.  Nothing  came,  so  I  returned  to 
the  man,  who  rightly  looked  at  me  with  contemptuous  pity. 
"That  is  the  waste-paper  basket,"  he  said;  "that  small  one 
is  the  proper  place."  Having  thoroughly  disgraced  myself 
and  misspent  much  time,  I  at  last  got  my  books.  Louisa 
Courtenay  laughed  long  and  loud  over  my  stupidity,  and  told 
me  I  had  always  had  too  many  people  to  do  my  biddings 
and  to  help  me,  so  that  I  was  incapable  of  doing  things  properly 
— which  was  partly  true. 

While  in  London  some  years  before  Miss  North  had  taken 
me  to  see  a  charming  old  lady.  Miss  Swanwick,  who  wanted  to 
hear  Tuscan  folk-songs.  I  heard  she  was  staying  with  Dr. 
Martineau,  so  wrote  to  her,  asking  her  to  find  out  whether  her 
host  remembered  my  great-grandmother,  or  any  stories  about 
Norwich  in  her  days.    She  answered  : — 


Miss  Anna  Swanwick  to  Janet  Ross. 

Aviemore,  August  2,  1888. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Yesterday,  after  spending  a  delightful  fortnight  with 
my  dear  friend  Dr.  Martineau,  I  bade  him  farewell  and  am 
now  the  guest  of  another  friend.  Shortly  before  leaving  the 
Polchars  I  received  your  welcome  letter,  telling  me  of  the 
interesting  work  in  which  you  are  now  engaged,  a  memoir 
of  Three  Generations,  which  will,  I  should  imagine,  be  hailed 
with  peculiar  satisfaction  by  Sir  Francis  Galton,  as  illustrating 
his  favourite  doctrine  of  Heredity,  more  especially  as  the 
literary  genius  of  the  family  has  been  transmitted  to  the  fourth 
generation.  I  delivered  your  message  to  Dr.  Martineau  ; 
he  fears,  however,  that  as  he  left  Norwich  at  the  age  of  fourteen, 
he  cannot  help  you  to  any  facts  concerning  the  old  Norwich 
days.  He  retains  a  vivid  remembrance  of  your  great-grand- 
mother, Mrs.  John  Taylor,  of  whom  he  speaks  as  of  a  very 
remarkable  woman.  It  was  the  custom,  he  says,  to  contribute 
papers  to  the  budget  read  at  the  meetings,  held  at  intervals 


REMINISCENCES  2S3 

of  a  few  years,  of  the  Taylor  and  Martineau  families,  the 
descendants  of  two  sisters,  and  who,  at  last,  were  upwards  of 
seventy  in  number.  These  Papers  consisted  of  Essays,  Poemj, 
and  Dramas,  the  latter  being  acted  by  the  younger  members 
of  the  two  families,  and  in  which  he  well  remembers  taking 
a  part. 

And  now,  having  executed  my  commission,  I  may  be  allowed, 
I  hope,  to  add  a  few  words  on  my  own  account.  I  retain,  I 
assure  you,  a  most  pleasing  remembrance  of  the  guitar  and  of 
Her  who  made  it  speak  such  excellent  music  and  sang  so  delight- 
fully. 

Believe  me,  dear  Mrs.  Ross,  yours  very  sincerely, 

Anna  Swanwick." 

Our  dear  landlord  Delia  Stufa  had  been  ailing  for  some  time, 
and  the  news  about  him  was  so  bad  that  my  husband  and  I 
left  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  we  were  staying  with  Sir  Charles 
Clifford,  and  went  back  to  Castagnolo  at  the  beginning  of 
September.  For  some  years  I  had  been  urging  Henry  to  buy 
a  villa  and  spend  his  money  on  his  own  land,  and  he  now 
decided  to  do  so.  For  weeks  he  scoured  the  country  round 
Florence ;  several  places  which  might  have  suited  us  did  not 
suit  the  beloved  orchids.  Their  houses  were  obliged  to  have  a 
particular  exposure  and  be  sheltered  from  the  north  wind. 
At  last  when  almost  in  despair  he  saw  an  advertisement  of 
a  villa  near  Settignano,  and  as  Delia  Stufa  was  slightly  better 
I  went  with  Henry  to  see  it.  I  did  not  like  it,  but  my  unfor- 
tunate husband  was  lo  weary  of  house-hunting  that  I  said  : 
"  Buy."  Driving  down  the  hill  we  passed  under  an  old 
machicolated  castle  with  fine  trees  close  by.  "  There,"  I 
exclaimed,  "  if  you  bought  that  I  should  be  quite  content." 
We  asked  the  name,  and  when  we  got  back  told  Delia  Stufa 
we  had  seen  a  place  from  the  outside  which  I  liked  and  its 
name  was  Poggio  Gherardo.  He  smiled  and  asked  me  whether 
I  would  not  like  to  buy  Palazzo  Pitti.  Next  morning  the  post 
brought  a  letter  from  the  son  of  our  kind  doctor,  Grazzini, 
saying  that  friends  of  his  were  in  villegiatura  in  an  old  castle 
he  was  sure  I  should  admire,  and  that  they  thought  if  properly 


284  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

managed  it  might  be  bought.  Its  name  was  Poggio  Gherardo. 
I  waved  the  letter  in  Henry's  face  and  exclaimed  :  "  There  ! 
there's  my  villa."  We  were  advised  not  to  appear  as  buyers, 
for  being  English  the  price  would  be  raised.  So  after  going 
over  the  place  as  visitors  to  Grazzini's  friends,  we  made  no 
sign,  but  charged  Carlo  Orsi's  brother  to  buy  it  per  persona  da 
nominarsi,  as  the  saying  is  in  Italy.  Things  move  slowly  in 
this  country.  Though  we  bought  Poggio  Gherardo  in  Novem- 
ber we  did  not  get  possession  until  end  of  January.  They  were 
sad,  weary  months.  When  not  nursing  our  poor  friend  I 
was  packing  up  goods  and  chattels.  The  only  bright  spot 
was  the  success  of  my  book  the  Three  Generations  of  English 
Women.  The  reviews,  even  those  which  are  chary  of  giving 
praise,  said  it  was  well  done  and  only  found  fault  with  the 
index. 

Our  old  friend  John  Ball,  of  Alpine  fame,  who  had  been  ill, 
pleased  me  mightily  by  praising  "  the  excellent  taste  and 
judgment  shown  in  avoiding  anything  that  might  have  given 
offence  to  survivors  of  the  writers  of  any  letters  published  in 
the  book."  Like  many  other  people,  he  lamented  that  the 
French  letters  had  been  translated,  so  I  told  him  that  it  had 
been  done  by  Mr.  Murray's  express  desire.  My  cousin  Henry 
Reeve  aptly  wrote  :  "  It  is  a  remarkably  undisguised  and  honest 
book.  Many  of  the  predictions  are  wrong.  Much  of  the 
enthusiasm  is  misplaced,  but  that  is  the  way  of  the  world. 
One  can't  help  smihng  at  dear  St.  Hilaire's  faith  in  the  Repub- 
lic of  1848,  which  was  as  rotten  as  that  of  1793.  When  do  you 
expect  that  your  Manfred  will  be  published  ?  I  have  made 
arrangements  to  review  it.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Grenfell's  letter  is  so  characteristic  that  I  give  it  in 
full  :— 

H.  R.  Grenfell  to  Janet  Ross. 

2  Upper  Grosvenor  Street,  London, 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross,  December  30,  1888. 

I  have  just  finished  your  book  on  the  Three  Genera- 
tions.    I  was  so  interested  in  it  that  I  galloped   through  it 


FKANCOIS   PIERRE   GUILLAUME   Gl'IZOT. 


REMINISCENCES  285 

and  have  now  bought  it  to  read  more  slowly.  My  only  criticism 
is  that  there  is  too  much  of  Mrs.  Austin  and  too  little  of  your 
mother.  Or  rather  there  is  too  much  of  Mrs.  Austin's  friends. 
I  was  a  boy  in  Germany  when  she  paid  her  visit  to  Berlin  and 
Dresden.  And  I  can  testify  to  the  accuracy  of  her  description 
of  the  German  feeling  both  towards  England  and  France. 
I  don't  think  the  feeling  of  Germany  towards  this  country  is 
very  friendly  now.  Mrs.  Austin's  friends  were  many  of  them 
tiresome.  Guizot  must  have  been  tiresome.  As  long  as  it  was 
expected  that  we  had  entered  into  a  new  phase  and  that  virtue 
was  going  to  govern  us,  Guizot  was  all  very  well.  But  when  it 
came  to  be  discovered  that  virtue  (that  is  Guizot)  was  not 
virtuous  and  that  the  world  did  not  want  to  be  governed 
by  it,  Guizot's  reason  of  being  departed.  We  resorted  to 
Palmerston,  and  France  to  that  Leicester  Square  Frenchman 
Louis  Napoleon,  who  was  in  my  opinion  quite  good  enough 
for  Frenchmen. 

Surely  it  must  have  been  Sydney  Smith,  not  old  Sussex, 
who  said  that  it  took  nine  men  to  make  a  Taylor.^ 

The  Heine  story  is  a  novel  in  itself.  The  broken  English 
letter  from  the  refugee  contains,  to  those  who  know  Italians, 
as  lovely  a  picture  of  all  that  is  best  and  holiest  in  the  Italian 
character. 

And  now  what  a  future  we  have  to  look  to.  Boulanger  in 
France.  Milan  of  Servia  who  will  make  the  casus  belli 
which  was  wanted  in  the  Danube.  And  the  incoming  Secretary 
of  State  in  America  who  is  determined  to  annex  Canada 
whatever  happens. 

So  we  are  in  for  wars,  civil  in  Ireland  and  uncivil  everpvhere 
else. 

Yours  faithfully, 

H.  R.  Grenfell." 

^  Mr.  Grenfell  was  wrong,  for  Miss  Howes  wrote  to  me  :  "The  Duke  of 
Sussex  came  to  Norwich  on  some  Masonic  business.  My  father  walked  in  the 
procession  with  a  Bible  on  a  cushion  as  Chaplain  to  the  Grand  Lodge.  Mr.  Edward 
Taylor  was  prominent  in  the  business,  and  the  Duke  in  a  speech  at  the  dinner  said 
he  had  often  heard  the  saying  that  it  took  nine  tailors  to  make  a  man,  but  now, 
from  all  he  heard  in  Norwich,  he  was  disposed  to  think  that  it  took  nine  men  to 
make  a  Taylor." 


286  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Sir  Henry  Layard  also  wrote  to  me  from  Venice  saying  : — 

Sir  Henry  Layard  to  Janet  Ross. 

Ca'  Capello,  Venice,  January  2,  1889. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

...  I  have  only  had  time  to  skim  your  book  and  to 
read  your  dear  mother's  letters,  which  I  have  done  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  and  interest.  They  remind  me  of  many  happy 
days  spent  at '  The  Gordon  Arms '  when  we  were  all  young  and 
hopeful.  Alas !  How  few  of  those  who  used  to  meet  there 
are  still  living — Kinglake  and  myself  are,  I  believe,  the  only 
two — and  it  cannot  be  long  before  we  follow  our  friends. 
It  was  kind  of  you  to  think  of  sending  me  your  book.  I  heartily 
wish  it  every  success  and  may  you  make  '  something  handsome  ' 
out  of  it.  But  books  of  this  kind  do  not  pay  now  as  they  did 
in  former  days.  To  get  at  the  pockets  of  the  public  you  must 
write  '  Penny  Dreadfuls  '  or  sensational  stories. 

I  am  deeply  grieved  to  hear  of  poor  Stufa's  serious  illness, 
don't  overtax  your  strength  in  nursing  him.     Kindest  regards 

Your  affectionate 

A.  H.  Layard." 

Our  dear  landlord  and  friend  died  ii'.  February,  and  we  had 
months  of  hard  work  to  get  things  at  ill  straight  in  our  new 
home.  Everything  was  in  sad  disorder.  The  poderi,  or  farms, 
had  been  left  to  afattore,  who  of  course  had  taken  all  he  could 
out  of  the  land  and  put  nothing  in  :  the  peasants'  houses 
were  wretched — there  were  not  even  windows — only  heavy 
wooden  shutters,  which  had  not  been  painted  for  years  and 
were  half  rotten.  The  condition  of  the  villa  itself  was  de- 
plorable. On  trying  to  kill  a  wasp  on  the  front  door  my  stick 
went  straight  through.  Just  before  leaving  Castagnolo  my 
faithful  Giulio  had  entreated  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes  to  take 
him  and  his  wife  with  us,  and  then  the  man  who  looked  after 
my  pony  made  the  same  request,  so  we  had  people  we  could  rely 
on.  When  it  was  known  that  we  wanted  labourers  a  lot  of 
men  came  from  the  Mugello,  twelve  miles  away,  and  as  there 


REMINISCENCES  287 

was  no  place  near  where  they  could  sleep  we  let  them,  have 
five  rooms  upstairs  with  a  separate  entrance,  which  had  been 
occupied  by  the  fattore.  They  were  above  my  husband's 
room,  and  in  order  not  to  disturb  him  in  the  early  morning 
the  good  fellows  did  not  put  on  their  boots  until  they  were  out 
of  doors. 

The  "  English  ideas  "  of  the  Padroni  were  a  source  of  great 
wonder  to  the  contadini.  Henry's  objection  to  bits  of  paper 
littering  the  carriage  drive  and  to  clothes  being  hung  out  to 
dry  on  the  rose  hedges  they  thought  absurd  and  inconvenient  ; 
and  my  insisting  on  air  and  cleanliness  in  the  cow  stables  was 
met  with  dismay,  and  evasion  whenever  possible.  They  were 
an  inferior  lot  of  people,  as  th.^  fattore  had  behaved  so  ill  to 
the  peasants  who  had  been  on  the  property  for  generations 
that  they  had  left,  and  no  decent  family  would  take  a  fodere 
under  him.  The  old  Tuscan  proverb,  Ogni  muta,  una 
caduta  (every  change  is  a  disaster),  had  certainly  proved  true 
in  this  case,  for  the  land  was  covered  with  that  terrible  pest 
couch-grass,  ditches  had  not  been  cleaned  out  for  years,  and 
the  carriage  drive  was  like  a  stony  watercourse.  We  decided 
to  divide  a  big  -podere  and  to  build  a  new  peasant's  house,  as 
one  family  could  not  possibly  do  the  work  properly  on  twenty 
or  more  acres,  and  I  set  to  work  planting  vines  and  fruit 
trees.  I  also  determined  to  try  and  find  out  something  about 
the  history  of  our  old  castle.  Hearing  that  in  the  National 
Library  of  Florence  there  was  a  manuscript  written  in  1740 
by  one  of  the  Gherardi,  I  went  there,  but  after  waiting  a 
long  time  I  was  told  that  it  had  been  mislaid — could  not  be 
found.  By  great  good  luck  old  Mr.  Temple  Leader  came  to 
call  and  said  he  had  a  copy,  made  for  him  when  he  bought 
Vincigliata  many  years  ago,  which  he  would  lend  me  if  I  cared 
to  have  it  copied.  There  I  found  the  history,  not  only  of  our 
villa,  but  of  many  others  on  the  Fiesole  and  Settignano  hill- 
sides. Ruberto  Gherardi's  ancestor  Gherardo  Gherardi  bought 
the  Palagio  del  Poggio  in  1433  from  the  Zati  family  and  changed 
its  name  to  Poggio  Gherardo,  or  Gherardi,  and  it  had  been  in 
the  possession  of  the  Gherardi  until  we  bought  it.  By  students 
of  Boccaccio  it  has  always  been  identified  with  the  falagio. 


288  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

immortalized  in  the  Decamerone,  "  on  a  small  hill  equidistant 
on  all  sides  from  any  road,"  to  which  the  joyous  company  of 
youths  and  ladies  went  first  from  Florence  to  escape  the  plague. 
Two  short  miles  to  the  east  of  the  city  they  came  to  the  foot 
of  a  hill  "  on  the  summit  whereof  was  a  palace.  In  the  centre 
was  a  pleasant  and  large  courtyard,  with  arcades  and  halls 
and  rooms,  each  one  beautiful  and  well  ornamented  with 
jocund  paintings ;  surrounded  by  fields  and  with  marvellous 
gardens,  and  possessing  wells  of  purest  water,  and  cellars  full 
of  precious  wines  more  suited  to  curious  topers  than  to  sober 
and  virtuous  women."  Here  Pampinea  was  crowned  queen, 
and  here  she  commanded  Panfilo  to  begin  the  series  of  wonder- 
ful tales.  At  the  end  of  the  first  day  she  ceded  the  garland, 
emblem  of  royalty,  to  "  the  discreet  maiden  Filomena,"  and 
the  company  then  went  down  to  a  stream  of  clear  water  (the 
Mensola)  which  from  a  height  near  by  flowed  among  rocks 
and  green  herbage  through  a  valley  shaded  by  many  trees. 
Barefoot  and  with  naked  arms  they  entered  the  water  and 
disported  themselves  until  the  hour  of  supper  being  nigh, 
they  returned  to  the  palace  and  supped  with  great  content. 

Alas,  the  "  jocund  paintings  "  had  all  disappeared.  The 
rooms  had  been  papered,  and  with  what  paper  !  When  I 
ordered  it  to  be  all  scraped  off  and  the  walls  to  be  simply 
washed  a  light  grey  stone  colour,  the  workmen  exclaimed  : 
Ma,  Lei  sa  che  e  carta  di  Francia  ?  (But  do  you  know  that  it  is 
French  paper  ?),  in  tones  of  respect  and  dismay.  Of  the 
*'  marvellous  gardens  "  no  trace  remained,  save  that  in  digging 
we  sometimes  came  upon  bits  of  old  masonry  which  might 
have  belonged  to  anything — walls,  arbours,  pedestals  for 
statues.  My  interest  and  amusement  in  working  at  the 
amelioration  of  our  own  place  recalled  to  me  St.  Hilaire's 
description  of  the  small  girl's  pride  when  she  showed  him 
her  bit  of  garden,  saying  "  all  my  own,"  but  it  was  saddened 
by  a  letter  from  dear  Eothen's  nice  nurse  Miss  Alice,  telling 
me  of  an  operation  to  his  throat  and  that  he  was  very  low. 
So  I  determined  to  write  him  a  long  letter  every  other  day 
to  cheer  him,  and  until  he  died,  save  when  I  went  to  see  him  in 
London,  I  sent  my  budget  of  news  regularly.     On  May  i8 


REMINISCENCES  289 

he  scribbled  me  a  line  in  pencil  :  "  Dear  Janet,  your  most 
kind,  most  delightful  letters  are  balm  to  me." 

I  described  to  him  the  wonderful  view  from  our  terrace — 
when  clear  we  saw  the  top  of  Monte  Nero  above  Leghorn 
to  the  west,  while  Vallombrosa,  covered  with  snow  in  the  winter, 
lay  to  the  east — ninety-three  miles  as  the  crow  flies.  And  how 
we  were  in  the  midst  of  splendid  art-memories  ;  Settignano, 
where  Desiderio  was  born,  and  near  by  the  house  belonging 
to  Michelangelo's  father,  to  which  the  baby  boy  was  brought 
to  be  nursed  by  the  wife  of  a  stone-cutter.  "  I  drew  the  chisel 
and  the  mallet  with  which  I  carve  statues  in  together  with 
my  nurse's  milk,"  he  told  Vasari.  Behind  us  was  Maiano, 
the  birthplace  of  Giuliano  and  Benedetto  da  Maiano,  and  the 
tiny  village  of  Corbignano,  from  whence  the  sons  of  a  sculptor, 
Giusto  Betti,  emigrated  to  France  and  became  famous  in 
French  art-history  as  Les  Justes  de  Tours.  In  the  same  village 
is  also  the  little  house  bought  by  Boccaccio  di  Chellino  when 
he  came  from  Certaldo  to  Florence.  Ruberto  Gherardi  de- 
clares that  "here  was  born  our  Master  Giovanni  in  13 13.  .  .  . 
I  am  the  more  persuaded  of  this  because  it  lies  about  a  mile 
from  the  valley  of  Ameto,  under  which  name  he  speaks 
of  himself  in  the  Commedia  delle  Ninje  Fiorentine.^^  With 
infinite  patience  and  long-winded  dullness  old  Gherardi 
identifies  the  different  spots  mentioned  in  the  Decamerone, 
the  Ninfale  Fiesolane,  and  Ameto.  But  what  amused  Eothen 
more  was  my  description  of  how  I  stood  over  the  peasants 
to  see  that  they  dug  deep  enough  to  destroy  the  roots  of  the 
wild  tulips,  anemones,  and  irises,  in  the  fields.  This  they 
did  unwillingly  because  their  children  got  a  few  pence  by  selling 
the  flowers  ;  never  calculating  that  wheat  and  potatoes  pro- 
perly grown  paid  far  better. 

When  the  Land  of  Manfred  came  out,  although  very  well 
reviewed,  particularly  in  the  Edinburgh,  it  met  with  little 
success.  I  was  much  disappointed,  as  I  had  worked  hard  and 
thought  my  work  was  good.  Mr.  Murray  declared  it  was  the 
fault  of  my  title,  which  did  not  explain  what  the  book  was 
about — people,  he  said,  thought  my  hero  was  Byron's  Man- 
fred !  I  was  somewhat  consoled  when  a  publisher  at  Trani 
u 


290  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

asked  permission  to  have  "  the  only  book,  since  Gregorovius' 
La  Grande  Grece  which  is  more  historical,  about  our  beloved 
and  much-maligned  Italia  Meridionale,''^  translated,  and  by 
letters  from  friends.  Dr.  Hodgkin,  who  had  so  kindly  corrected 
names  and  dates  in  the  chapter  on  Benevento,  wrote  : — 


Dr.  Thomas  Hodgkiji  to  "Janet  Ross. 

St.  Nicholas  Square,  Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 

June  13,  1889. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Among  the  many  pleasures  of  my  home-coming  after 
a  much-enjoyed  visit  to  the  East,  has  been  that  of  finding  your 
delightful  book  The  Land  of  Manfred  on  my  table.  I  am 
reading  it  with  great  interest,  and  think  you  have  been 
remarkably  successful  in  blending  the  two  interests  of  modern 
travel  and  of  ancient  history.  Most  people  who  have  any 
knowledge  of  history  feel  this  blending  of  two  harmonious 
notes,  but  it  is  not  everyone  who  can  make  others  feel  it  as 
you  do.  To  me  the  power  of  transporting  oneself  into  the 
past  makes  the  chief  part  of  the  pleasure  of  travel. 

I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  sympathies  are  so  entirely  and 
undisguisedly  on  the  side  of  the  Hohenstauffen.  I  always 
was  a  Ghibelline  and  have  felt  from  a  child  something  like 
personal  hatred  for  Charles  of  Anjou,  only  tempered  by  the 
remembrance  that  after  all  he  was  the  brother  of  St.  Louis, 
whom  I  take  to  be  one  of  the  noblest  characters  of  the  Middle 
Ages. 

Ever  yours  truly, 

Thos.  Hodgkin." 

Before  I  finished  the  Three  Generations  Kinglake  had 
been  anxious  that  I  should  make  it  Four  and  put  myself  in. 
But  I  demurred.  He  then  suggested  that  I  might  follow 
it  up  by  a  small  volume,  and  gave  the  title  Early  Days 
Recalled.     Chiefly  to  please  and  amuse  him  I  began,  and  sent 


REMINISCENCES  291 

him  some  MS.  From  his  answer  I  discovered  that  he  wanted 
me  to  write  a  historical  work.  Six  long  letters  followed  this 
one,  all  full  of  the  loth  of  April,  telling  me  what  to  read,  and 
almost  angry  when  I  answered  that  I  had  not  the  requisite 
knowledge  for  such  a  book. 

A.  W.  Kinglake  to  Janet  Ross. 

17  Bays  water  Terrace,  Kensington  Gardens, 

August  2^,  1889. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

First  let  me  thank  you  for  your  most  kind  invitation 
to  your  Tuscan  castle — one  even  including  Miss  Alice,  though 
in  my  present  state  I  have  to  remember  that  for  an  invalided 
old  boy  the  proper  place  is  his  home.  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  thank  you  enough  for  your  dear  letters. 

I  have  read  your  MS.  with  great  pleasure,  for  my  memory, 
like  yours,  is  familiar  with  most  of  your  dramatis  fersonce. 
Of  course  your  narrative  is  without  much  '  backbone,'  not 
purporting  to  be  more  than  anecdotical,  and  I  don't  know 
enough  of  things  literary  to  be  able  to  say  whether  people  not 
having  my  knowledge  of  your  old  home  in  Queen's  Square 
would  think  the  reading  solid  enough  for  their  august  minds. 
I  fear  that  the  result  of  a  merely  anecdotical  book  might  be 
disappointing,  not  from  any  want  of  skill  in  the  telling,  but 
from  the  fact  that  the  human  subjects  of  the  anecdotes  are 
forgotten  people.  I  am  told  that  of  the  now  reading  world 
hardly  any  remember  Mrs.  Norton,  or  the  fame  that  her 
transcendent  beauty  left  behind  her  for  at  least  a  few  years. 
But  there  is  one  part  of  your  narrative  which  suggests  to  me  a 
plan  for  not  only  giving  it  the  needed  '  backbone,'  but  even 
offering  to  your  readers  some  knowledge  of  (as  I  think)  great 
value  which  is  not,  as  far  as  I  know,  recorded  in  any  good  book. 
That  '  loth  of  April,  1848,'  for  which  your  dear  father  and 
mother  so  well  prepared  in  the  way  you  describe,  was  really 
a  great  day  for  England,  and  even  for  Europe,  and  so  you  will 
say,  if  you  make  yourself  mistress  of  the  subject.    The  interest, 


292  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

of  course,  being  hugely  augmented  by  the  fact  that  the  great 
Duke  of  Welhngton  commanded  in  the  battle  and  splendidly 
won  it.  The  part  taken  in  the  business  by  your  father  and 
mother  within  that  sphere  of  action  which  you  describe  was 
noble  and  wise,  and  furnished  a  beautiful  sample  of  what 
ought  to  be  the  fraternization  between  '  gentle  and  simple  ' 
in  times  of  national  danger.  Your  drama  would  open  with 
the  flight  of  kings  and  falling  thrones,  and  then  pass  on  to  the 
wonderful  '  loth  of  April,'  which  you,  as  a  small  child,  may 
be  said  to  have  seen  '  making  ready  '  at  the  supper-party  in 
Queen's  Square.^  The  story  is  a  grand  one,  as  I  think,  and 
glorious  to  England  at  a  time  when  the  Continent  (except 
Russia)  was  shaking  with  terror.  The  French  on  the  9th 
thought  it  was  all  over  with  England,  and  one  of  their  news- 
papers said  :  La  Reine  s^est  sauvee  avec  son  Cobourg  dans  Vlsle 
de  Wichtchl ! 

My  dear  Janet,  ever  your  affectionate 

A.    W.    KiNGLAKE." 

When  I  was  at  Oxford  in  1888  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  Tozer,  well  known  to  my  husband  by  his  books  on 
Turkey  and  Armenia.  As  he  was  going  to  Apulia  I  gave  him 
letters  of  introduction  which  he  found  useful.  The  following 
year  he  sent  me  his  monograph  and  I  wrote  to  thank  him.  He 
answered  : — 

Rev.  H.  F.  Tozer  to  Janet  Ross. 

18  Norham  Gardens,  Oxford,  November  3,  1889. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  am  much  pleased  that  my  monograph  meets  with  your 
approval.  As  you  think  I  may  venture  to  present  a  copy  to 
the  Public  Library  of  Lecce  I  send  one,  but  I  must  request 
that  it  goes  under  your  auspices.  I  know  Vito  Palumbo's 
translations  into  Salentino  Greek  and  am  much  interested  in 
them,  but  I  was  not  aware  that  he  lived  in  Kalimara.  I  venture 
to  send  a  copy  for  him,  if  you  think  he  would  like  it. 

^  See  p.  14. 


REMINISCENCES  293 

I  have  been  in  Trebizond,  and  found  that  the  greater  part 
of  the  population  of  the  city  and  the  neighbouring  district 
speak  Greek.  It  is  a  very  pecuhar  and  interesting  dialect  of 
modern  Greek.  '  Concealed  '  Christians,  such  as  you  describe, 
are  found  in  various  parts  of  Turkey  ;  I  know  of  them  in  Crete 
and  in  Macedonia  ;  the  real  Christians  sometimes  call  them 
'  linsey-woolseys.'  They  are  known  to  baptize  their  children, 
keep  the  saints'  days,  etc.  But  about  the  classical  Greek  I 
am  afraid  I  am  rather  sceptical. 

Believe  me  yours  very  truly, 

H.  F.  TozER." 

In  November  Mr.  Symonds  came  to  Poggio  Gherardo, 
which  was  beginning  to  be  comfortable.  He  was  not  very 
well,  but  the  brilliancy  and  fire  of  his  conversation  was  a 
perpetual  delight.  After  this  visit  my  dear  Historian,  as  I 
dubbed  him,  came  to  see  us  every  year.  From  the  Countess 
Pisani's  he  wrote  : — 

J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Vescovana,  Stanghella, 

Wedfiesday,  November  26,  1889. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

This  is  how  I  am  going  to  call  you,  if  you  will  allow  me. 
I  had  a  very  quiet  journey  on  Sunday,  and  found  at  Bologna 
a  letter  from  Mad.  Pisani  begging  me  not  to  pass  her  by 
without  a  visit.  So  here  I  have  been  since  two  o'clock  on 
Monday,  and  now  I  am  going  on  to  Venice. 

Fortunately  the  weather  is  extremely  beautiful,  and  so  this 
vast  plain,  intersected  by  the  Canals  of  the  Adige,  looks  its 
very  best — like  a  silvery  dreamy  Holland  with  richer  soil  and 
most  luxuriant  vegetation,  and  the  Euganean  Hills  for  great 
permanent  blue  clouds  upon  the  northern  horizon. 

I  drove  with  the  Contessa  over  a  large  part  of  her  estate 
yesterday,  visiting  I  don't  know  how  many  farm-houses,  in- 


294  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

specting  (she  said)  nearly  three  hundred  head  of  huge  white 
oxen,  and  blowing  up — at  least  the  Countess  blew  up — 
every  unfortunate  man,  woman,  and  cliild  that  came  in  our 
way.  It  took  nearly  four  hours,  and  gave  me  considerable 
respect  for  the  Pisani  property.  They  have  one  fascinating 
old  house  for  vilUggiatura  right  on  the  Adige,  built  deep  below 
the  level  of  the  dykes,  but  rising  to  a  high  aerial  storey  which 
looks  down  into  the  swishing  mass  of  water  and  across  to  the 
Apennines,  and  backwards  to  the  Euganeans  and  the  Alps. 
I  should  like  to  inhabit  that  altana  for  a  while. 

I  find  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  this  rhyme,  done,  I  think, 
from  one  of  your  Tuscan  lullabies  : — 

Carnival,  Carnival,  fly  away  home. 
They've  made  a  fool's  cap  to  set  on  your  crown  : 
Each  tag  is  a  sausage  that  dangles  down. 
Carnival,  Carnival,  fly  away  home. 

What  are  you  to  do  with  fegatello  (Each  tag's  a  black- 
pudding)  ? 

I  wish  I  had  been  stronger  and  more  capable  of  enjoyment. 
In  some  strange  way  fai  perdu  ma  force  et  ma  vie.  I  wonder 
whether  they  will  ever  come  back  again,  even  in  part. 

Please  remember  me  with  affection  to  Mr.  Ross,  and  believe 
me  always  most  sincerely  yours 

J.  A.  Symonds." 

My  dear  "  Old  (Ebalian,"  Sir  James  Lacaita,  begged  us  to  go 
and  spend  a  few  weeks  with  him  at  Leucaspide,  but  Henry 
was  too  busy  building  another  orchid-house,  so  I  went  alone. 
It  was  a  good  year  for  olives  and  a  great  number  of  women 
were  engaged  in  picking  up  the  fruit  under  the  big  trees. 
Several  of  the  girls  were  handsome  ;  one  in  particular  was  like 
a  Greek  statue  and  had  the  hands  of  the  Medicean  Venus, 
small,  with  curved  fingers.  Several  of  the  women  were  good 
dancers,  so  one  evening  we  had  a  party.  There  was  a  guitar, 
two  ghitarre  battente,  one  admirably  played  by  a  carter,  and  a 
tambourine.  The  music  of  the  Apulian  dance  the  Pizzica- 
fizzica  was  wilder  and  more  exciting  than  anything  I  ever 


REMINISCENCES  295 

heard,  far  more  so  than  that  of  the  tarantella.  Occasionally 
the  players  would  burst  into  song  : — 

"  Lassatfli  balla' !  lassatdi  balla'  ! 
Lassatdi  balla' !  chiss  do'  diavula  ! 
Ca  tenenf  la  tarant,  ca  ten^n^  la  tarant 
Ca  ten^n^  la  tarant,  sott'  a  li  pieda 

Uhe',  uhei  la  !  uhe',  uhei  li ! 

Uhe',  uhei  li !  de  nott^  me  ne  sci 

A  lu  lusce  de  la  lun^ 

No  ma  va'  v^de'  nisciun^. 

Oh,  quant  ball  bon^ !  oh,  quant  ball  bon^ ! 
Oh,  quant  ball  bon^  !  chessa  coppia  ! 
lung  e  'nu  mulid,  iun^  e  'nu  muliJ 
lun^  ^  'nu  mulid,  e  1'  aide  'na  vernecocca. 
Uhe',  uhei  la  !  "  etc.^ 

and  the  whole  company  joined  in  the  chorus  of  Uhe',  uhei  la  ! 
uhe',  uhei  li  !  The  Greek  beauty  danced  like  a  sylph.  Holding 
the  corners  of  her  apron  with  the  forefinger  and  thumb  of 
each  hand,  she  glided  swiftly  down  the  room,  then  suddenly 
flinging  one  arm  above  her  head  and  bending  the  other  back- 
wards on  her  hip,  she  circled  round  her  partner,  snapping  her 
fingers  and  seeming  to  defy  him  to  follow  her.  The  man,  a 
bricklayer,  had  a  splendid  figure  ;  his  eyes  sparkled  with  excite- 
ment, the  backs  of  his  hands  resting  on  his  hips  as  he  flew  after 


^  The   italic   f's   are    pronounced    like   the   e   muec  in    French,   in    ne  pas,    for 
example, 

(Let  them  dance  !  bis 
These  two  devils  ! 
Who  have  the  tarantula  iis 
Under  their  feet. 

Uhe',  uhei  la  !     Uhe',  uhei  li  ! 

Uhe',  uhei  li  !     At  night  I'll  go  out. 

I5y  the  light  of  the  moon 

No  one  will  see  me. 

Oh,  how  well  they  dance  !  his 
This  couple  ! 
One  is  an  apple,  tis 
And  the  other  an  apricot. 
Uhe',  uhei  la  !  etc.) 


296  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

the  girl.  As  one  dancer  was  tired  another  sprang  into  his,  or 
her,  place.  At  last  Sir  James,  who  in  his  youth  had  been  a 
famous  dancer  of  both  the  pizzica  and  the  tarantella,  could 
bear  it  no  longer  ;  he  jumped  up  and  put  them  all  to  shame  by 
the  neat  grace  of  his  steps.  They  tried  to  teach  me,  but  one 
must  be  born  in  Magna  Graecia  to  dance  the  pizzica-pizzica 
properly.  After  some  glasses  of  wine  a  sonetto  was  called 
for  from  a  shepherd  who  I  saw  admired  the  Greek  beauty. 
"  He  makes  songs,"  I  was  told.  Addressing  himself  to  me, 
but  with  an  occasional  impassioned  glance  at  the  girl,  who  was 
sitting  by  me,  he  sang  to  a  wild,  melancholy  air,  very  Eastern 
in  its  long-drawn-out  notes : 

"  Quanno  s'  afFacce  tu,  donna  reale, 
Ognuno  dicera  :   Mo  spande  'lu  sole  ; 
Non  e  lu  sole  e  manco  so'  li  stelle 
E  lu  splendore  che  cacce  sta  donna  belle." 

(When  thou  lookest  forth,  royal  lady. 

All  will  say  :  Now  the  sun  is  shining  ; 

It  is  not  the  sun,  neither  is  it  the  stars, 

It  is  the  splendour  this  beautiful  woman  sends  forth.) 

I  claimed  the  performance  of  an  old  promise — that  I  might 
dig  at  the  Tavola  del  Paladino,  or  Paladin's  table.  With  four 
men  we  started  for  San  Giovanni,  one  of  Sir  James's  farms 
about  two  miles  from  Leucaspide,  where  we  met  Professor 
Viola,  then  head  of  the  museum  at  Taranto.  On  a  small, 
round  hillock  in  the  middle  of  high,  flat  tableland  stood 
a  huge,  irregular  slab  of  stone,  nine  feet  nine  inches  long  and 
seven  wide,  supported  on  four  upright  smaller  stones  more 
than  three  feet  high  ;  evidently  the  tomb  of  some  forgotten 
hero  buried  near  an  ancient  chariot  road,  the  deep  ruts  of 
which  could  be  followed  for  miles.  We  soon  saw  that  the  tomb 
had  been  opened  before.  All  that  came  out  was  one  perfect 
jawbone,  pieces  of  two  others  with  most  enviable  teeth, 
a  few  human  bones,  and  some  broken  prehistoric  pottery, 
called  Bucchero  Italico.  This  was  the  first  megahthic  tomb 
excavated,  Viola  said,  in  the  province.     I  saw  the  workmen 


REMINISCENCES  297 

looked  sceptical  at  the  word  megalithic,  and  while  the  pro- 
fessor was  talking  learnedly  to  Sir  James  I  asked  one  o£  them 
whose  the  tomb  really  was.  "  Christian,  no  doubt,"  he 
answered.  "  Impossible,"  I  remarked ;  "  the  remains  date 
from  long  before  the  birth  of  our  Lord."  "  That  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  In  those  days  the  Christians  did  not  die.  The 
pagans  buried  them  alive,  and  then  the  paladins  killed  the 
pagans  and  sat  round  this  table  to  eat  and  drink  after  battle. 
It  is  not  a  tomb  at  all.    It  is  a  tavola  (table)."  ^ 

My  visit  to  Leucaspide  was  cut  short  by  news  that  Henry 
was  ill,  so  I  rushed  back  to  Poggio  Gherardo.  He  had  slipped 
down  some  steps  and  hurt  his  back,  besides  having  a  bad  cold. 
Often  I  begged  him  not  to  be  so  rapid  in  his  movements 
(the  contadini  had  nicknamed  him  "  steam-engine  "  on  account 
of  his  quick  walking)  and  to  remember  that  he  was  no  longer 
twenty.  But  it  was  no  use.  He  would  order  something  to  be 
done,  in  the  garden  and  then,  if  the  men  did  not  at  once  set 
to  work,  he  would  do  it  himself.  At  the  end  of  June  he  went 
to  Aix-les-Bains  and  I  to  London  to  see  Eothen,  who  was  far 
from  well.  I  stayed  for  a  little  with  Miss  Courtenay,  and,  as 
usual,  caught  cold  and  had  bronchitis.  Then  Kinglake  said  he 
wanted  me  all  to  himself  and  took  rooms  for  me  close  to  Bays- 
water  Terrace.  Every  afternoon  we  went  and  sat  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  where  he  would  fall  asleep.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  how 
feeble  and  low  he  was  ;  and  when  the  time  came  to  say  good- 
bye I  felt  I  should  never  see  my  beloved  "  guardian,"  the 
best  of  friends,  again. 

In  the  late  autumn  Symonds  came  to  Poggio  Gherardo  and 
fell  ill.  The  first  time  our  doctor,  Grazzini,  saw  him  he  was 
rather  taken  aback  by  Symonds  at  once  asking  him  whether 
he  was  a  descendant  of  Lasca  (A.  F.  Grazzini,  founder  of  the 
famous  Academy  of  La  Crusca).  ^^  Per  Bacco^''  exclaimed  the 
doctor,  "  you  seem  to  know  our  literature  better  than  most  of 
my  Italian  patients."  They  became  great  friends ;  Symonds 
soon  got  better,  and  Grazzini  gave  him  much  good  advice — 
which  of  course  he  did  not  follow. 

When  he  got  back  to  Davos  he  wrote  : — 

^   Mr.  Lacaita  tells  me  the  men  were  right  and  that  it  was  a  sacrilicial  table 


298  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

A.  Hof,  Davos  Platz,  Switzerland, 

December  ii,  1890. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

You  see  I  am  here,  I  arrived  on  Saturday,  having  had 
a  very  dull,  gloomy  three  days'  journey  from  Venice.  But 
within  five  miles  of  Davos  I  emerged  from  thick  fog  into  the 
glorious  clear  sunset  of  the  upper  Alps — white  pyramids, 
tinted  like  red  and  amber  coloured  jewels  by  the  sun's  rays 
shooting  into  cloudless  serenity  of  blue.  And  so  it  has  been 
ever  since.  I  feel  on  the  whole  really  the  better  for  my  Italian 
holiday,  for  the  delightful  days  of  gentle  almost  summer  at 
Poggio  Gherardo.  And  I  am  going  to  rest  as  much  as  I  can 
from  work  for  some  time.  Grazzini  is  quite  right  about  that. 
By  the  way,  when  you  see  him,  do  give  my  kindest  salutations 
to  that  charming  man. 

I  hope  Gozzi  reached  you.  I  will  write  to-day  to  have  my 
poems  sent,  but  I  do  not  expect  you  to  care  for  them.  They 
are  a  very  mixed  lot,  and  the  best  are  sonnets  in  Vagabunduli 
Libellus  :  which  means,  you  know,  the  little  book  of  a  little 
wanderer  or  vagabond.  With  my  kindest  regards  to  Mr.  Ross, 
believe  me  always  yours, 

J.  A.  Symonds." 

To  St.  Hilaire  I  had  written  my  good  wishes  for  the  new 
year  and  told  him  about  the  vines  and  fruit  trees  that  had  been 
planted.     He  answered  : — 

M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Boulevard  Flandrin  4,  Decembre  31,  1890. 

"  Tres-chere  Janet,  ma  petite  niece, 

Votre  aimable  souvenir  du  nouvel  an  m'a  fait  grand 
plaisir  en  me  prouvant  que  vous  allez  fort  bien,  malgr6  les 
rigueurs  de  cet  hiver.      16,000  ceps   de  vigne,   2000  arbres. 


/> 


^  fy 


-<.>^^^ 
-"^--t^ 


JOHN    ADDINGTOX    SYMOXDS. 


REMINISCENCES  299 

c'est  superbe,  d'abord  a  planter,  puis  cnsuite  a  voir  croitre. 
Devenez  agriculteur,  sans  cesser  d'ecrire.  Les  deux  forment 
une  excellente  existence.  Je  voudrais  bien  avoir  organise 
la  mienne  de  cette  fagon.  Maintenant  c'est  trop  tard.  J'ai 
85-i-  ans,  c'est  un  avantage  sans  doute  ;  mais  que  de  tristesscs 
de  voir  tout  tomber  autour  de  soi  avant  de  tomber  soi-meme. 
Vous  continuez  a  ecrire  et  a  dessiner  avec  votre  energie 
ordinaire.  Moi  j'ai  fini  Aristote  depuis  quinze  jours,  apres 
cinquante  -  neuf  ans.  J'imprime  les  derniers  volumes,  qui 
seront  en  tout  au  nombre  de  35,  Je  remercie  Dieu  de  m'avoir 
fait  cette  grace  inesperee.  Vous  avez  bien  raison  de  penser 
que  je  ne  regrette  pas  d'avoir  donne  ma  vie  au  genie  d' Aristote, 
quoique  j'eusse  prefere  la  passer  avec  Platon  et  Socrate.  Mais 
je  suis  toujours  dans  la  Grece,  c'est  a  dire  avec  le  beau  et  le 
vrai.  Penser  qu'a  I'heure  qu'il  est,  en  France,  on  s'efforce  de 
detruire  les  etudes  classiques  !  Ce  sera  le  coup  mortel  pour 
notre  intelligence.  Agreez,  ma  chere  petite  niece,  tous  mes 
voeux  pour  votre  sante,  vos  travaux  et  votre  bonheur.  Votre 
bien  devoue 

B.  St.  Hilaire." 

Shorter  and  shorter  and  more  illegible  became  the  few  lines 
Kinglake  sent  in  answer  to  my  long  letters  ;  in  December  only 
"  dear  Janet  "  w'as  in  one  from  his  nice  gentle  nurse,  Miss 
Alice.  On  January  2,  1891,  he  died,  having  borne  a  painful 
malady  with  the  same  tranquil  courage  which  first  attracted 
Lord  Raglan's  attention  in  the  Crimea.  It  was  on  the  day  of 
the  battle  of  the  Alma.  The  Commander-in-Chief  and  his 
staff  rode  to  the  front  and  were  followed  by  a  miscellaneous 
crowd  of  sightseers.  One,  mounted  on  a  rampaging,  vicious 
little  stallion  whose  loud  neighs  and  screams  were  intolerable, 
attracted  the  notice  of  Lord  Raglan.  Some  members  of  his 
staff  suggested  ordering  the  crowd  of  idlers  to  retire,  but  he 
said  :  "  No,  they  will  tail  off  fast  enough  when  we  get  under 
fire,"  and  cantering  along  a  road  swept  by  the  Russian  fire, 
he  crossed  the  river  to  a  knoll  close  to  the  enemy's  position. 
The  sightseers  had  "  tailed  off  "  as  Lord  Raglan  predicted — 
all  save  the  civilian  mounted  on  the  vociferous  pony.    He  was 


300  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

quietly  examining  the  Russian  lines.  Struck  by  his  pluck, 
the  Commander-in-Chief  sent  one  of  his  staff  to  find  out  who 
he  was.  When  he  heard  that  he  was  Kinglake,  of  Eothen  fame, 
he  rode  up  and  asked  him  to  dine  that  night.  The  two  men 
became  fast  friends,  and  when  speaking  of  Lord  Raglan 
Eothen's  eyes  dimmed  once  or  twice.  Few,  very  few,  men 
had  such  a  power  of  descriptive  talk,  or,  when  roused  by  some 
story  of  injustice  or  wrongdoing,  such  a  power  of  scathing 
sarcasm,  rendered  even  more  withering  by  the  quiet  tone 
of  voice  and  the  courteous  manner.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
the  most  generous  and  most  charitable  of  men.  About  his 
literary  work  there  can  be  no  two  opinions.  He  was  a  master 
of  English  prose.  With  infinite  care  and  patience  he  corrected 
and  recorrected  proofs ;  sentences  were  written  and  rewritten 
until  they  satisfied  his  fastidious  taste  ;  and  even  his  shortest 
notes  have  a  wayward  grace  of  style. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

^  LL  my  Historian's  fine  resolutions  about  resting 
/^k  from  work  in  obedience  to  the  doctor's  orders 
r — ^k  were  swept  away  like  fleecy  clouds  in  less  than 
-*-  Ji^  a  month.  He  became  possessed  with  Michelangelo 
and  could  write  of  nothing  else.  Early  in  January,  1891,  he 
asked  me  to  go  to  Alinari  and  order  photographs  of  all  Michel- 
angelo's work  to  be  sent  to  Davos  immediately,  adding — 
to  our  amusement — "  he  may  probably  never  have  heard 
of  me,  and  I  think  it  better  to  open  negotiations  through 
the  mediation  of  one  so  well  knowm  in  Florence  as  you  are." 


y.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Davos  Platz,  Switzerland,  January  14,   1891. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

Thanks  to  your  energetic  action,  for  which  I  am 
sincerely  grateful,  I  received  a  whole  mass  of  photographs 
from  Alinari.  I  only  wish  now — this  is  my  fault — that  I 
had  asked  to  have  them  mounted.  They  would  have  taken 
more  room  indeed,  but  would  not  have  curled  up  like  so  many 
hundreds  of  Aaron's  rods  turned  into  serpents  on  my  table 
and  my  floor,  as  these  superb  shadow-pictures  of  great  art- 
work are  doing  now.  I  can  hardly  grapple  vnth  them.  But, 
as  I  hope  to  buy  a  very  large  number,  I  can  have  them  mounted 
for  me  here.  The  fact  is  that  we  live  just  now  in  climatic 
conditions  hostile  to  unmounted  photographs.  The  ther- 
mometer register  last  night  was  27  Fahr.  below  zero,  or  59 
degrees  of  frost.    The  house  is  well  heated,  and  the  sun  heat 

301 


302  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

in  the  day  is  high.  And  there  is  not  a  scrap  of  moisture  any- 
where, except  in  human  bodies.  Consequently,  things  hke 
wood,  paper,  leather,  woollen  garments,  acquire  an  extra- 
ordinary dryness. 

Tell  the  Padrone  o£  our  temperature.  It  will  remind  him 
of  Erzeroum — except  that  here  we  have  little  wind.  I  do 
not  know  whether  there,  in  Erzeroum,  he  profited  by  as  much 
sun  as  we  have,  v^^hich  enables  me  to  sit  out  in  my  wooden 
loggia  when  the  thermometer  behind  the  planks  registers 
15  below  zero  at  noonday. 

I  am  going  to  plague  you  with  another  request.  I  have 
a  friend  here  who  wants  to  find  a  place  in  Florence.  His 
object  is  to  learn  Italian.  He  can  correspond  excellently 
well  in  German,  well  in  French,  and  understands  book- 
keeping, etc.  .  .  .  Now  you  will  exclaim  :  '  A  plague  on  the 
Historian.  He  comes  in  each  letter  to  make  some  claim  upon 
our  friendship.'  True,  dear  lady  ;  true,  Padrona  cara,  Donna 
e  Signora  di  Poggio  Gherardo.  But  your  poor  Historian 
does  not  really  make  demands.  He  only  asks  whether  in  the 
multiplicity  of  your  connections  with  Florence  you  can  think 
of  some  .place  in  which  to  stow  away  Anton  for  a  season. 
Love  to  you  all. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  A.  Symonds." 

Several  people  had  told  me  that  it  would  be  very  difficult, 
indeed  almost  impossible,  to  obtain  permission  to  examine 
the  archives  in  Michelangelo's  house,  owing  to  the  will  of 
the  last  of  the  Buonarroti,  who  left  the  house  and  its  contents 
either  to  the  Government,  or  to  the  city  of  Florence,  with 
strict  injunctions  that  his  ancestor's  letters  and  papers  should 
not  be  made  public,  or  even  examined  by  anyone.  I  there- 
fore went  to  Dr.  Guido  Biagi,  the  well-known  librarian  of 
the  Laurentian  Library,  told  him  of  Symonds'  projected 
work,  and  asked  what  could  be  done.  He  suggested  that  a 
formal  application  should  be  made  to  him  to  forward  to 
Rome.  I  then  wrote  to  my  Historian  to  tell  him  what  I  had. 
done. 


REMINISCENCES  303 

Early  in  April  he  came  with  his  daughter  Madge  to  stay 
with  us.  She  and  my  niece  Lina  Duff  Gordon,  who  had 
come  to  live  with  us  after  the  death  of  her  mother,  became 
great  friends,  perhaps  because  they  were  so  different.  One 
dark,  with  splendid  eyes,  a  nervous  excitable  temperament 
like  her  father,  and  a  passionate  love  of  nature  and  flowers ; 
the  other  tall,  slender  and  fair,  fond  of  books,  but  with  tastes 
and  talent  only  just  developing.  My  niece  had  come  straight 
from  the  Sacre  Coeur  convent  at  Paris  (her  mother  was  a 
Roman  Catholic),  and  her  physical  well-being  had  been 
as  little  attended  to  by  the  nuns  as  her  education.  They 
naturally  grieved  at  her  coming  to  live  with  heretics,  and 
a  letter  from  one  of  the  mothers  showed  the  opinion  they  had 
of  us.  Lina  had  written  a  description  of  Poggio  Gherardo 
to  one  of  them,  and  among  other  things  mentioned  a  hand- 
some Maremma  dog  called  Leone,  the  usual  name  in  Tuscany  for 
these  big  sheep-dogs.  This  proved  our  moral  obliquity. 
"  Oh,"  wrote  Mere  Eugenie,  "  that  you  should  be  compelled 
to  live  with  people  who  have  so  little  respect  for  our  Holy 
Father  as  to  call  a  dog  by  his  blessed  name  !  "  Half  the 
Maremma  dogs  round  us,  belonging  to  good  Catholics  too, 
were  "  Lions  "  because  of  their  savage  disposition.  A  few 
days  later  I  called  on  a  neighbour,  and  when  he  reproved  his 
Leone  for  barking  at  me  I  looked  shocked,  and  remarked 
that  it  was  the  name  of  the  Pope.  "  So  it  is,  I  never 
thought  of  it,  but  it  is  such  a  good  name  for  a  Marem- 
mano." 

While  Symonds  was  with  us  he  helped  me  to  select  some 
of  my  mother's  translations  of  Heine's  poems,  done  when  she 
was  in  Paris  in  1855  to  please  the  dying  poet.^  They  were 
published  in  Murray's  Magazine  in  June.  About  the  same 
time  St.  Hilaire  urged  me  to  translate  M.  Anatole  Leroy- 
Beaulieu's  book  on  Russia,  L'Empire  des  Czars.  He  had  the 
profoundest  mistrust  of  Russia.  "  Le  public,"  he  wrote,  "  fera 
bien  d'avoir  les  yeux  ouverts  sur  la  Russie  ;  ses  vastes  desseins 
pourraient  eclater  plus  tot  qu'on  ne  pense ;  et  la  Providence 
reserve  peut-etre  a  cette  Macedoine-Slave,  la  domination  de 

^   See  Three  Generations  of  Englishivomen,  p.  223  et  teq. 


304  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I'Occident  Greco-Romain.    Je  tremble  d'etre  prophete  ;  et  je 
ne  suis  pas  le  seul  a  voir  cet  avenir." 

I  sent  a  copy  of  Early  Days  Recalled  to  dear  Signor  and 
received  a  letter  of  wonderful  length  from  so  bad  a  corre- 
spondent : — 

G.  F.  Watts  to  Janet  Ross. 

Monkshatch,  Guildford,  June  ij^   1891. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  never  thanked  you  enough  for  your  interesting 
and  charming  book,  how  especially  interesting  to  me  recalling 
days  perhaps  the  most  delightful  I  have  ever  known  I  need 
not  say.  I  should  have  written  before,  but  I  have  been  horribly 
ill  with  this  fiendish  influenza. 

I  wonder  whether  you  are  coming  to  England  this  summer. 
In  your  place  I  should  hardly  be  tempted.  Dear  Firenze  ! 
I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  see  it  again,  and  indeed  almost 
shrink  from  visiting  it,  dreading  the  changes  which  I  hear 
have  taken  place,  changes  which  in  these  days  of  extraordinary 
diminution  of  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  I  know  must  be  the 
destruction  of  so  much  not  only  of  historical  interest  but  of 
artistic  delight.  I  should  shrink  from  coming  to  see  the 
lovely  old  city  even  if  the  chance  were  offered,  and  that  cannot 
be,  as  I  have  no  health  for  travelling,  and  time  grows  short 
with  me ;  this  is  my  seventy-fifth  year !  But  I  rejoice  that 
some  people  are  enjoying  what  I  cannot.  Nov/  there  is  one 
thing  you  can  do  for  me,  if  you  are  poking  about  in  Florence 
or  have  friends  with  plenty  of  time  for  hunting  and  would 
be  interested  in  the  sort  of  thing.  I  so  very  much  wish  to 
find  a  certain  school-book  my  Italian  master  got  for  me  when 
I  first  went  to  Florence  in  the  year  1843,  and  which  was  the 
delight  of  my  life;  it  is  a  selection  of  chapters  from  the  historians 
of  Florence — Villani,  Guicciardini,  Malaspini,  and  others. 
It  seemed  to  be  an  ordinary  school-book.  When  I  left  Florence, 
intending  to  return,  I  did  not  carry  the  book  with  me,  and 
when  my  things  were  sent  home  the  book  was  not  with  them. 


REMINISCENCES  305 

I  have  made  enquiries  from  time  to  time  without  success. 
If  this  book  can  be  found  I  would  gladly  pay  many  times  its 
price.  If  you  will  institute  a  hunt  for  it  I  should  be  much 
obliged.  After  so  much  silence  I  would  like  to  send  you  a 
letter  with  some  degree  of  interesting  stuff  in  it,  but  I  am 
the  worst  of  all  scribes,  but  always  your  affectionate 

SiGNOR. 

Mary,  my  wife,  sends  her  love." 

I  hunted  through  all  the  book-shops  in  Florence,  but 
could  find  no  book  answering  to  *'  Signor's  "  description.  I 
begged  old  school-books  of  friends ;  Signora  Villari  thought 
she  had  it  and  it  was  sent  to  Little  Holland  House,  but  it 
was  not  the  right  one.  In  all  five  books  were  despatched,  but 
the  one  was  never  found. 

My  husband  took  Lina  to  Switzerland  as  she  suffered 
from  the  heat,  while  I  remained  to  superintend  some  work 
that  had  not  been  finished.  It  was  rather  dreary  all  alone  in 
the  big  house,  and  my  joy  was  great  when  a  telegram  came 
from  a  very  kind  friend,  Mr.  Somerset  Beaumont,  inviting 
me  to  meet  him  and  his  party  at  Bayreuth  and  hear  Parsifal 
and  lannhiiuser.  The  theatre  was,  I  thought,  ugly,  but  the 
mise  en  scene  wonderful,  save  that  instead  of  a  milk-white 
swan  a  grey  goose  fell  to  Parsifal's  arquebuse,  whereat  an 
irreverent  neighbour  said  in  a  stage  whisper  "  Apple  sauce." 
The  orchestra  was  very  fine,  but  the  German  singing  I  confess 
I  did  not  enjoy.  I  should  have  preferred  all  the  singers  to 
have  been  marionettes.  The  small  theatre  in  the  town  was 
the  most  charming  building ;  the  scenery  was  mounted  ready 
for  some  opera,  and  I  longed  to  hear  Gluck  or  Mozart  sung 
by  Italians  in  such  an  old-world,  dainty  setting.  We  all  went 
to  beautiful  Nuremberg  for  a  few  days,  from  whence  I  returned 
to  Poggio  Gherardo,  where  I  found  a  letter  from  Symonds, 
of  which  I  quote  a  few  lines  as  they  show  his  extraordinary 
power  for  work  : — 

"...  I  think  of  leaving  Davos  about  the  end  of  September, 
and  if  you  could  take  me  in  for  a  few  days  it  would  be  such 


3o6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

a  pleasure  to  me.  I  shall  have  to  go  on  to  Rome.  I  cannot 
properly  remember  the  M.A.  architecture  there.  Since 
I  came  up  here  I  have  now^  spent  ten  weeks  on  my  work, 
writing  about  eight  hours  a  day.  It  is  a  tremendous  strain. 
But  I  have  finished  (or  at  least  laid  down  on  paper)  eleven 
chapters  out  o£  the  fourteen  I  planned.  My  work  is  already 
a  substantial  thing  before  me.  .  .  ." 

I  too  was  busy.  My  mother's  Letters  jrom  Egypt  had  long 
been  out  of  print,  and  I  always  felt  that  Mrs.  Austin  had 
"  edited  "  them  far  too  much — partly  from  necessity,  not 
to  get  people  into  trouble.  But  things  had  changed  in  Egypt. 
One  had  no  longer  to  fear  that  a  Viceroy  would  vent  his 
displeasure  at  the  outspoken  words  of  a  dead  Englishwoman 
on  the  defenceless  heads  of  her  poor  Egyptian  friends.  All 
her  letters  had  been  left  to  me  by  my  father  and  I  copied 
them  faithfully,  only  leaving  out  purely  family  matter. 
I  had  written  to  ask  "  Signor's "  leave  to  put  a  very  beautiful 
pencil  head  of  her,  done  by  him  in  1848,  as  frontispiece  to 
the  book.  Mrs.  Watts  answered  for  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
told  me  that  Leighton  was  coming  to  Italy.  I  knew  he  wanted 
to  know  Symonds,  so  wrote  at  once  to  him  and  my  letter 
followed  him  to  Perugia. 


Sir  Frederick  Leighton  to  Janet  Ross. 

Perugia,  October  16,  1891. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

Many  thanks  for  your  most  kind  letter.  I  am  sincerely 
sorry  to  say  that  I  canU  do  what  you  so  amiably  suggest. 
I  am  this  year  more  than  usually  tied  by  my  work  (a  wretched 
*  Presidential  discourse  '),  so  much  so  that  I  have,  to  my 
grief,  to  forego  my  visit  to  Rome  and  Michelangelo — on  which 
I  had  much  reckoned.  I  shall  indeed  pass  through  Florence  ; 
shall  probably  be  there  on  Friday,  but  the  day  will  barely 
suffice  for  what  I  have  to  do.  Apart  from  the  great  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  again  in  your  home,  I  should  particularly  like 
to  meet  J.  A.  Symonds,  and  I  need  not  add  how  glad  I  should 


REMINISCENCES  307 

be  to  find  our  dear  old  Lacaita.  If  I  can  possibly  manage  to 
drive  out  in  the  afternoon  for  a  mez.z,''  oretta  to  greet  you  I 
will  certainly  do  so  ;  but  this,  my  dearest  Janet,  is  the  extent 
of  the  hope  of 

Your  affectionate 

Fred.  Leighton. 

Does  Symonds  never  come  to  England  ?  I  should  so  much 
like  to  see  him." 

When  the  dear  Historian  left  us  he  was  in  the  mood  for 
writing.  His  first  letter  was  from  Bibbiena,  where  he  stopped 
on  the  way  to  Rome  in  order  to  drive  to  La  Vernia,  from 
whence  he  rode  to  Caprese.  Caprese  he  described  as  "  a 
lonely  country — I  cannot  call  it  town  or  village — for  it  is  a 
sort  of  scattered  district  made  up  of  hamlets  buried  in  vast 
woods  of  chestnut  and  oak.  The  old  castle,  where  M.  A. 
was  born,  stands  by  itself  on  the  top  of  a  wooded  rock,  and 
would  make,  I  think,  a  good  sketch.  You  look  down  the  Tiber 
valley  toward  Citta  di  Castello  and  then  far  away  rise  the 
Apennines  beyond  and  behind  Perugia,  Monte  Aguto, 
etc " 

The  next  letter  was  from  Rome. 


J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Hotel  du  Quirinal,  Rome, 

October  29,   1891. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  have  just  arrived  and  found  your  letter  and  those 
you  so  kindly  forwarded.  In  spite  of  mixed  weather  I  have 
enjoyed  my  journey  since  I  wrote  to  you  from  Bibbiena. 
Orvieto,  as  usual,  left  upon  my  mind  a  sinister  impression 
of  ancient  guilt,  and  Signorelli,  as  formerly,  dominated  my 
imagination  almost  painfully. 

I  passed  Terni  without  stopping,  and  came  to  Aquila  by 
an  interesting   mountain   railway.     The  upland   where  Rieti 


3o8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

is  struck  me  as  excellent  in  air.  But  the  Apennines  are  so 
stony  and  ugly,  destitute  of  charm  or  outline  beauty.  Aquila 
is  worth  a  long  journey.  Its  position  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  highest  Apennines  is  highly  attractive,  and  there  are  some 
interesting  relics  of  art — not  much,  since  a  great  earthquake 
in  1703  destroyed  nearly  the  w^hole  of  the  old  city. 

Sulmona  is  hardly  worth  going  to.  It  has  an  Angevine 
aqueduct  of  some  picturesqueness  and  a  fine  fagade  of  a 
building  which  is  now  a  hospital.  Nothing  more  to  my  eyes 
at  least,  except  the  stony  Apennines,  and  the  people,  who  are 
as  ugly  and  rude  as  the  abominable  twangle  jangle  wrangle 
music  of  the  superficial  South. 

I  could  not  get  De  Nino's  book  on  Ovidio  in  the  only  book- 
shop of  the  town  ! 

The  railway  to  Rome  is  on  the  whole  uninteresting.  Endless 
barren  hills — stones,  stones,  stones,  and  a  few  black  olive  trees, 
three  or  four  large  oaks.  One  passes  Tagliacozzo — the  great 
battlefield  of  the  Hohenstaufen  tragedy  —  and  then  Tivoli, 
Tivoli  seen  from  a  railway,  and  on  a  dreary  day.  Then  down 
into  the  grand  dramatic  Roman  Campagna,  all  indigo  and 
Venetian  red  under  a  brooding  heaven  of  cloud. 

I  do  not  want  to  stay  longer  here  than  is  necessary  for  my 
work  on  M.  A.  B.    I  hate  an  hotel  like  this. 

Probably  I  shall  go  to  Seravezza  (on  M.  A.  B.  business) 
and  then — I  do  not  know.  Be  good  and  write  to  me  frankly 
whether  you  would  let  me  come  to  you  again  ? 


Ever  yours, 


J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 


J.  A.  S. 


Hotel  du  Quirinal,  Rome, 

October  31,  1891. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  cannot  resist  the  impulse  to  write  to  you,  because 
I  have  just  done  something  which  is  entirely  out  of  your 
line,  I  think. 


REMINISCENCES  309 

Rome  Is  whipping  its  enthusiasm,  up  about  Mascagni  and 
Amico  Fritz.  To-night  is  the  first  representation.  At  the 
table  d'hote  dinner  (to  which  I  go  for  penance  and  discharge 
of  duty)  I  sat  next  a  friend  of  his.  A  pleasant  young  man, 
who  talked  very  agreeably  and  listened  to  my  bad  Italian, 
being  somewhat  Anglo-maniac.  Well,  he  offered  to  take  me 
to  Mascagni's  private  box,  introduce  me  to  the  Maestro, 
and  let  me  share  the  tremors  of  the  situation.  I  refused. 
With  abundance  of  thanks,  and  pleading  previous  engage- 
ments, which  existed  only  in  my  own  imagination.  I  don't 
suppose  you  would  have  done  this.  And  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  am  right  to  have  neglected  such  an  opportunity. 

Alas  !  I  can  only  do  two  or  three  things  at  one  time.  Not 
four  or  five.  The  Sistina  has  exhausted  me  to-day  ;  and  a 
visit  to  a  German  artist  of  great  skill  in  painting  nudes.  I  am 
going  to  make  him  pose  models  in  the  impossible  positions 
discovered  by  M.  A.  B. 

M.  A.  B.  is  my  vampire  at  present.  If  only  the  work  would 
come  out  worth  the  pains  I  take  about  it. 

He  beats  every  artist  quite  clean  out  of  the  field.  Raffaello 
is  insipid.  The  Stanze  after  the  Sistina  are  like  milk  or  gruel 
after  wine.  Only  the  antique  bears  the  comparison.  But  I 
must  confess  that  the  bronzes  recently  discovered,  and  placed 
in  a  new  museum  at  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  beat  Alichel- 
angelo.  There  is  a  young  man  there  in  bronze,  called  Meleagar, 
who  is  stupendous. 

Ever  yours, 

J.  A.  S." 

The  Historian  came  back  to  Poggio  Gherardo  for  a  few 
days,  and  how  we  talked  about  Michelangelo  !  He  had  over- 
done himself  in  Rome  and  was  coughing  a  good  deal,  so  I 
insisted,  to  my  loss  as  I  told  him,  on  his  going  to  bed  early, 
and  was  called  la  tiranna  (the  tyrant)  in  consequence.  When 
he  left  the  sky  was  grey  and  lowering  and  rain  threatened. 
From  Zurich  he  wrote  : — 


310  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 


J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Hotel  Bauer,  Zurich,  November  13,  1891. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

Since  I  left  your  hospitable  feudal  keep  of  Pogglo 
Gherardo  yesterday,  I  have  got  along  well  enough  except 
for  coughing.  Well.  The  Gothard  was  never  more  drenched, 
dripping,  grand  in  a  vast  style  of  Alpine  squalor,  than  I  saw 
it  to-day.  We  got  into  thick  snow  and  icicles  at  Airolo. 
Then  emerging  from  the  tunnel,  spring  or  tardy  summer 
reappeared.  On  the  Swiss  side,  all  was  a  respectable  late 
autumn  evening,  tuned  to  pensiveness.  The  lakes  of  Lugano  vi^^u 
and  Zug  brooded,  steely-grey,  with  their  crags  and  woods, 
under  an  indolent  dove-coloured  heaven.  A  great  change 
from  the  deluge-devils  of  the  Italian  '  versant.'  I  found  none 
of  my  family  here,  and  no  news  of  them.  So  I  hope  to  get 
up  to  Davos  to-morrow,  and  to  go  ahead  in  earnest  again  on 
M.  A.  B.  I  think  of  you  so  much  and  your  continual  kindness 
that  I  spend  this  atom  of  time  in  talking  to  you.  It  makes 
up  for  not  being  able  to  sit  dreaming,  gossiping,  sauntering 
across  a  thousand  fields  with  irresponsible  feet  of  meditation, 
ventilating  paradoxes,  dissecting  neighbours,  over  the  wood 
fire  in  your  dear  drawing-room  ;  while  the  presence  of  the 
Arno  valley  and  the  hills  is  always  felt  inside  the  house,  adding 
a  dignity  and  charm,  not  ours,  to  what  we  say.  For  this 
poor  wanderer  on  the  world  your  room  in  the  evenings,  with 
you  and  Mr.  Ross,  both  so  tolerant  of  nonsense,  and  so  deli- 
cately kind  to  weakness,  will  retain  an  abiding  and  ineffaceable 
impression  of  genial  and  active  life.  May  you  both  live  long 
and  prosper,  amid  all  your  projects  for  the  good  of  selves 
and  others,  and  may  you  have  no  more  hard  times. 

This  is  the  heartfelt  wish  of  your  obliged    and    humble 
well-wisher — as  the  old  letter-writers  often  put  it, 

J.  A.  S. 

Bourget's  book  is  on  the  whole  good.    I  have  given  it  full 
justice,  read  it  all  a  fetites  gorges.    It  is  made  up  a  stento. 


REMINISCENCES  311 

Not  an  effusion  spontaneous  from  the  heart  and  passion  of 
the  writer.  On  a  small  scale.  But  a  good  book,  of  a  good  boy, 
naively  anxious  to  secure  sensations,  and  still  sufficiently 
devoid  of  cynicism  to  cook  them  for  his  appetite  out  of 
cabbages  and  the  husks  of  the  wayside.  It  seems  to  me  wholly 
original,  so  far  as  it  goes.  A  very  striking  contrast  to  his 
novels.  Which  is  the  real  man — the  man  of  the  novels,  or 
the  man  of  the  pretty  diary  ?  The  latter  is  the  real  man,  I 
think.    The  modern  French  novel  is  a  sort  of  machine." 


J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Am  Hof,  Davos  Platz,  November  14,  1891. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  am  arrived.  This  morning  at  Zurich,  when  I  was 
selecting  my  carriage,  I  heard  the  voices  of  my  tw'o  daughters, 
Madge  and  Catherine,  calhng  to  me  from  the  train.  They 
had  tracked  from  London  with  a  large  party  who  have  gone 
on  to  Brindisi  for  Cairo.  So  I  took  up  my  girls  when  they 
were  journeying  alone. 

And  finally,  as  so  often  happens,  out  of  the  unutterable 
fog  and  filth  of  Lombardy,  the  drenched  squalor  of  the 
Gothard,  the  repellent  dullness  of  Lower  Switzerland, 
we  emerged  before  sunset  into  the  aerial  splendour  of  our 
snowy  mountains,  with  their  pure  clear  air  and  graceful 
summits  cleaving  upward  to  the  stars.  It  is  like  getting  back 
into  an  enchanted  crystal  palace,  after  the  humdrum  of  a 
mediocre  world. 

The  luxury  too  of  finding  a  house  with  perfectly  dry  air 
in  it  and  an  equal  temperature.  Many  as  are  the  drawbacks 
of  spending  one's  life  at  Davos,  it  has  aesthetically  and  sensually 
the  greatest  pleasures  which  an  epicure  can  hope  for. 

All  the  Apennines  from  the  Consuma  and  La  Vernia, 
through  Rieti,  Aquila,  Sulmona,  Tivoli,  have  not  a  single  line 
of  beauty  in  them  equal  to  what  lies  about  us  everywhere  in 
this  region.  The  beauty  here,  of  line  and  profile,  is  so  over- 
whelmingly rich  that  artists  cannot  deal  with  it.    I  understand 


312  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

their  feeling  after  poorer  districts,  where  '  bits '  make  a 
distinct  pictorial  effect,  and  where  atmospheric  influences 
and  varieties  of  vegetation  suggest  subjects.  But  here  we 
have  the  greatest  beauty,  that  which  defies  art.  The  only- 
supreme  beauty  in  nature  which  art  can  grapple  with  is  the 
human  nude. 

There,  I  have  written  an  Aesthetik  in  small  paradoxes. 
So  good  night.  My  chest  is  raw.  But  what  of  that  ?  Love 
to  the  Padrone,  from  my  wife,  and  also  from  me.    Ever  yours. 

J.  A.  S." 

After  these  letters  I  only  got  short  notes  from  my  Historian, 
asking  me  to  look  out  words  in  the  Delia  Crusca  vocabulario. 
Not  content  with  Michelangelo,  he  began  a  book  together  with 
his  daughter  Madge,  mentioned  in  the  following  letter  : — 


J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Davos,  December  lo,  1891. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

You  will  have  some  right  to  be  cross  with  me  for  this 
prolonged  silence.  I  never  thanked  you  for  your  notes  upon 
the  use  of  the  word  gonna,  nor  have  I  told  you  how  very 
much  flattered  I  was  by  your  verses  to  me.  They  are  indeed 
a  delightful  compliment.  I  only  wish  I  deserved  it.^  I  have 
been  dreadfully  hard  at  work,  finishing  up  M.  A.  B.  The 
whole  book  is  now  complete  and  I  shall  send  it  to  London  in 
a  few  days. 

^  "Faithful  and  truthful,  generous,  modest,  kind. 
Many  the  virtues  which  in  thee  I  find. 
So  wise  art  thou  that  flattery  is  vain 
To  fill  with  vanity  thy  steady  brain. 
Made  to  discern  the  characters  of  men 
And  calmly  trace  their  real  meaning,  when 
They  would  dissemble.     Large  and  just  thy  view 
Of  all  humanity,  and  clear  and  true 
Thy  judgment,  which  nor  fear  nor  favour  rules, 
But  justice  metes  to  sages  and  to  fools," 


REMINISCENCES  313 

We  have  had  no  snow  to  speak  of  yet.  Our  lake  is  frozen 
and  affords  splendid  skating.  Madge  and  I  are  going  to  pro- 
duce a  book  in  common.  Did  I  tell  you  about  it  ?  It  is  to 
be  all  about  our  life  here.  I  cannot  find  a  good  title.  What 
do  you  think  of  '  Our  Life  in  the  High  Alps,'  or  *  Alpine 
Highlands  ? '  I  wish  you  would  invent  a  good  one.  I  have  no 
talent  for  this.  Your  Land  of  Manfred  shows  that  you  have. 
Remember  me  to  the  Padrone  and  beheve  me  to  be  affec- 
tionately yours,  T     A     c 

J    J  ^  J-    A.    bYMONDS. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  get  the  photo  of  the  Stufa  M.  A.  B.  I 
see  the  picture  mentioned  in  Fortune's  essays  on  the  '  Portraits 
of  M.  A.  B.'  He  doubts  the  attribution  to  Bugiardini.  My 
impression  is  that  it  may  be  by  Jacopo  del  Conte.  Colvin 
sent  me  eight  photographs  from  the  British  Museum  which 
have  been  of  use  to  me  lately.  But  I  am  in  difficulties  about 
the  illustrations." 

The  new  year  opened  sadly.  Mrs.  Higford  Burr,  who  had 
been  like  a  second  mother  to  me  since  my  first  visit  to  Alder- 
maston  as  a  girl,  died  at  Venice  on  22nd  January,  1892,  after 
a  few  days'  illness.  Though  no  longer  young  when  I  first 
knew  her,  she  was  still  very  lovely.  Small  and  delicately  made, 
her  complexion  was  truly  the  "  milk  and  roses "  of  the  poets, 
and  she  had  those  wonderful  large,  soft  eyes  which  sometimes 
go  with  short  sight.  She  had  read  much  and  had  a  strong 
sense  of  humour,  and  though  she  talked  well  was  an  admirable 
listener.  Few  professional  artists  worked  harder  than  Mrs. 
Burr ;  many  of  her  copies  of  old  frescoes  were  published  in 
the  Arundel  Society's  series,  and  an  afternoon  spent  in 
looking  through  her  many  portfolios  of  water-colour  paint- 
ings was  like  paying  visits  to  Italy,  Spain,  Egypt,  Montenegro, 
etc.  etc. 

In  March,  1892,  my  husband,  Lina,  and  I  went  to  Leucaspide. 
I  wanted  her  to  see  that  wonderful  country,  and  the  old  friend 
of  three  generations  to  know  the  fourth.  She  was  bitten 
with  the  same  desire  I  always  felt  there — to  dig  for  something. 
So  on  the  ist  April  Sir  James  ordered  a  broken  vase  that  had 


314  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

been  found  some  time  before  to  be  buried  in  an  ancient  filled- 
up  well.  Before  lunch  Lina  came  in  dishevelled  and  hot,  but 
triumphant,  with  her  vase.  Great  was  her  disgust  at  being 
hailed  as  a  Pesce  d'Afrile  (April  Fish),  the  Italian  version  of 
April  fool.  The  Archbishop  came  to  dine  one  evening  and 
was  much  interested  in  the  fair  young  English  Catholic 
girl.  On  our  plates  at  dinner  we  found  the  following  lines, 
written  by  Lacaita's  nephew,  who  besides  giving  valuable 
advice  to  the  cook,  celebrated  his  handiwork  in  rhyme. 

"  Dell'  Arcivescovo  per  la  presenza 
Sconvolta  s'  k  del  cuoco  la  sapienza 
Si  ch'  egli  fra  confuso  e  preoccupato 
II  pranzo  come  segue  m'  ha  dettato  ; 

Ostriche  fresche  serviran  d'  invito 

Ai  cari  convitati  all'  appetito  ; 

Una  leggicra  zuppa  alia  Reale, 

Una  Spinola  in  bianco  e  un  Fritto  misto 

Brio  metteranno  in  ogni  commensale. 

D'  un  Gallo  d'  India  scguira  1'  arrosto 

Con  Verde  ad  insalata  intorno  posto  ; 

E  sara  dato  a  raddolcirvi  un  poco 

Di  Ricotta  un  souffle  montato  al  fuoco  ; 

E  completare  la  minuta  tutta 

Quagliato  vi  sara,  Formaggio  e  Frutta."^ 

^  The  presence  of  the  Archbishop 
Made  the  cook  nigh  lose  his  head, 
So  confused  and  preoccupied 
He  dictated  me  the  following  dinner. 

Fresh  oysters  will  serve  to  excite 

The  appetite  of  the  honoured  guests, 

A  light  soup  a  la  Royale 

Spinach  with  white  sauce  and  a  Fritto 

Will  put  them  all  in  good  humour  ; 

A  roast  turkey  will  then  follow 

Garnished  around  with  green  salad, 

And  then  to  sweeten  their  palates 

A  souffle  of  curds  hot  from  the  fire ; 

To  complete  the  menu 

There  will  be  junket,  cheese,  and  fruit. 


REMINISCENCES  315 

Often  when  staying  at  Leucaspide  I  had  begged  our  dear 
host  to  write  his  memoirs  and  offered  to  be  his  secretary. 
I  told  him  that  he  had  seen  so  much,  known  so  many  interesting 
people,  and  been  so  intimately  connected  with  the  making 
of  Italy,  that  it  was  a  thousand  pities  not  to  leave  some  record 
of  so  full  a  life.  He  said  he  was  too  old,  and  also,  I  think, 
he  was  saddened  and  disappointed  that  Italy  had  not  made 
the  progress  he  had  hoped  and  expected.  In  vain  I  said  that 
Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day  and  that  it  would  take  a  long  time 
to  weld  together  the  northern  and  southern  Italians,  so  diverse 
in  character  as  to  be  almost  different  races.  He  shook  his 
head  and  repeated  that  he  was  too  old.  But  I  induced  him 
to  tell  me  again  the  dramatic  incident  of  his  going  to  Lord 
John  Russell's  house  and  upsetting  the  agreement  between 
France,  Naples,  and  England,  which  would  have  delayed, 
perhaps  altogether  prevented,  the  making  of  a  United  Italy. 
I  wrote  down  what  he  told  me  when  I  went  to  my  room  as 
nearly  in  his  own  words  as  I  could  remember  : — 

"Well,  you  know  how  in  1848  Ferdinand  II  stamped  out 
the  revolution  in  Sicily  with  the  help  of  the  French  and 
English  fleets  ?  Francis  II  hoped  to  do  the  same  in  i860. 
Two  of  his  ministers  were  sent  to  Paris  to  sound  the  Emperor 
Napoleon,  and  to  try  and  raise  a  loan.  Fortunately  Nigra 
was  tres  bien  vu  by  the  Empress,  and  one  evening  she  said 
something  which  showed  him  that  the  Emperor  had  acceded 
to  their  request  for  help  and  that  England  was  likely  to  follow 
suit.  Nigra  at  once  sent  off  a  courier  to  Cavour  at  Turin, 
who  took  counsel  with  his  friend  Sir  James  Hudson,  devoted 
to  Italy,  but  who  as  British  minister  would  have  been  bound 
to  carry  out  orders  from  London.  The  Sardinian  minister 
in  London  could  not  be  charged  with  a  negotiation  which 
would  show  that  his  Government  had  an  understanding  with 
Garibaldi,  and  Hudson  suggested  me  to  Cavour.  I  was  in  bed 
with  bronchitis  when  one  morning  d'Azeglio  came  to  my  bed- 
side with  a  message  from  Cavour  and  said  :  '  Get  up  at  once.' 
*  I  can't,'  I  answered ;  *  I  am  too  ill.'  '  You  must,  there  is  no 
time  to  lose,  the  Neapolitans  are  already  in  London.  Go  to 
Russell,  you  know  him  well.' 


3i6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  jumped  out  of  bed,  coughing  and  shivering  as  I  dressed, 
wrapped  a  plaid  round  me,  called  a  cab,  and  drove  to  Lord 
John's  house.  The  servant,  who  knew  me,  answered  that 
Lord  John  w^as  not  at  home.  I  said  I  knew  he  was  in  and 
must  see  him.  The  man  hesitated  and  then  told  me  that 
M.  de  Persigny  was  there,  that  an  Italian  gentleman  had 
just  arrived,  and  that  his  orders  were  peremptory  to  admit  no 
one. 

*  Well  then  I  must  see  Lady  John,'  I  answered. 
'  Her  ladyship  is  ill  in  bed,'  was  his  reply. 

So  I  took  out  my  card  and  wrote  :  '  By  the  love  you  bear 
your  father's  memory  I  implore  you  to  let  me  see  you  for  an 
instant,'  and  told  the  man  to  send  it  up  at  once  to  his  mistress. 
He  returned,  looking  rather  shocked,  and  gave  me  in  charge 
of  a  maid,  who  showed  me  into  Lady  John's  room.  I  did 
not  even  say  thank  you  or  ask  after  her  health,  but  began  : 

'  You  remember,  dear  friend,  what  happened  when  your 
husband  let  the  English  fleet  help  the  French  to  blockade 
Sicily  ?  You  remember  what  your  good  father  said,  and  how 
he  lamented  the  consequences  ?  At  this  moment  Lord  John 
is  about  to  commit  the  same  error,  but  the  result  will  be  far 
more  disastrous.  I  implore  you  to  send  for  him  ;  he  is  down- 
stairs. Let  me  speak  a  few  words  to  him.  I  am  sure  I  shall 
convince  him.' 

Lady  John  was  never  strong  and  her  husband  was  always 
anxious  about  her,  so  when  a  bit  of  paper  with  come  at  once, 
vyritten  in  pencil,  was  sent  down  to  him,  he  rushed  upstairs, 
and  his  face  was  a  study  when  he  saw  me  sitting  on  the  sofa 
in  his  wife's  room,  breathless  and  coughing. 

*  What,'  he  began,  but  I  at  once  said  : — 

'  You  are  about  to  join  with  France  and  Naples  in  blockading 
Sicily.' 

'  How  do  you  know  that  ?  ' 

'  It  is  so,  Lord  John,  you  can't  deny  it.  I  know  it  too  well. 
It  will  be  the  ruin  of  Italy  and  the  ruin  of  your  reputation 
as  head  of  the  Liberal  party.  Remember  where  France 
dragged  you  in  1848.  It  will  be  far  worse  now,  for  you  and 
for  us.     Garibaldi  will  not  be  stopped.     Either  he  will  elude 


REMINISCENCES  317 

your  ships  and  the  whole  world  will  laugh  at  you,  or  you  will 
send  him  and  his  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea — your  responsibility 
will  then  be  overwhelming.  I  cannot  leave  this  room  without 
a  reassuring  word  from  you.'  I  was  then  seized  with  such 
a  fit  of  coughing  that  Lord  John  was  quite  frightened  and  went 
to  fetch  a  glass  of  water.  While  I  was  still  gasping  Lady  John 
signed  to  me  to  go  away. 

So  I  had  the  pleasure  of  outwitting  Franceschiello  and 
his  worthy  ministers.  Lord  John  told  me  afterwards  that 
if  the  Neapolitan  envoy,  Marquis  La  Greca,  had  not  been 
late,  the  agreement  would  have  been  signed  before  he  was 
summoned  by  his  wife.  I  blessed  Neapolitan  unpunctuality. 
When  Persigny  found  out  that  I  had  seen  Lady  John  he 
understood  who  had  crossed  their  path  and  told  the  Neapolitan 
Government.  They  then  offered  me  the  post  of  minister 
in  London  and  the  title  of  Marquis.  How  I  made  Cavour 
laugh  when  I  described  the  scene." 

While  we  were  at  Leucaspide  Symonds  sent  me  proof  after 
proof  of  his  book  on  Michelangelo,  as  I  wished  to  write  a 
review  of  it.  I  proposed  it  to  Henry  Reeve  for  the  Edinburgh^ 
but  he  did  not  care  for  reviews  written  by  an  intimate  friend. 
To  some  passages  of  the  book  I  had  ventured  to  demur,  and 
my  Historian  answered  :  "  I  will  follow  all  your  suggestions 
except  perhaps  two.  I  cannot  omit  the  phrase  from  Aretino 
nor  a  part  of  Condivi's  apology.  But  all  the  rest  shall  be 
altered  in  your  sense.  The  chapter  will  gain  in  dignity  and 
not  lose  anything  in  point."  These  words  greatly  relieved 
my  mind,  for  after  I  had  sent  my  letter  I  was  seized  with 
the  fear  that  he  would  think  me  presumptuous. 

On  the  way  home  we  stopped  at  Naples  in  order  that  Lina 
should  see  Pompeii,  Vesuvius,  and  above  all  the  marvellous 
Museum.  It  was  my  second  visit  to  Pompeii,  and  spite  of  the 
very  great  interest  and  the  beauty  of  everything,  I  had  the 
feeling  that  it  was  a  dolls'  city.  Everything  was  on  so  small 
a  scale  that  it  was  like  looking  through  the  wrong  end  of  an 
opera-glass.  With  all  its  beauty  I  disliked  Naples,  and  the 
people  still  more.  When  we  got  home  I  found  a  letter  from 
my  Historian  : — 


3i8  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Zattere,  Venezia,  May  2,   1892. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  am  glad  you  got  home  safely  from  Leucaspide. 
Thank  you  for  what  you  say  about  Chapter  XH.  I  know 
the  matter  is  one  which  requires  delicate  handling.  I  should 
be  greatly  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  mark  on  the  proof  exactly 
the  sentences  you  think  might  be  omitted  or  altered.  The 
criticism  of  people  like  Lombroso,  and  von  SchefFel,  is  quite 
necessary,  because  their  view  of  M.  A.  B.  is  only  just  beginning 
to  be  adopted,  because  it  is  in  the  main  true,  and  because  a 
thorough  definition  of  his  real  temperament  ought  to  be  made 
once  for  all. 

I  want  to  do  this.  But  I  should  be  sorry  to  render  the  book 
unreadable  by  anybody.  I  believe  you  have  a  set  of  proofs 
of  Chapter  XH.  If  not  I'll  send  a  duplicate.  I  got  a  long 
letter  to-day  from  Edward  Poynter,  who  is,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
managing  the  illustrations  of  M.  A.  B.  for  Nimmo. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

J.  A.  S. 

I  daresay  it  is  odd  to  turn  from  Mrs.  Barbauld  and  her 
friends  to  M.  A.  B.  and  Febo  di  Poggio  and  me.  They  are 
both  of  them  very  attractive  sets  of  people." 

(I  was  working  at  a  second  edition  of  the  Three  Generations 
of  English  Women  and  told  the  Historian  that  the  contrast 
was  great.) 

In  May  our  friend  Professor  Fiske,  who  lived  near  Fiesole, 
brought  a  delightful  man  to  see  us,  Mr.  Clemens,  better 
known  as  Mark  Twain.  We  at  once  made  friends.  The  more 
we  saw  of  him  the  more  we  liked  the  kindly,  shrewd,  amusing, 
and  quaint  man.  He  asked  whether  there  was  any  villa  to  be 
had  near  by,  and  from  our  terrace  we  showed  him  Villa  Viviani, 
between  us  and  Settignano.     I  promised  to  get  him  servants 


REMINISCENCES  319 

and  have  all  ready  for  the  autumn,  and  it  was  arranged  that 
he,  Mrs.  Clemens,  and  their  eldest  daughter  should  lunch 
with  us  and  go  to  see  the  villa  afterwards.  The  door  opened 
and  I  stood  expectant.  "  Well,  and  Mrs.  Clemens  ?  "  A 
look  of  blank  dismay  came  over  his  face.  He  was  to  have 
picked  her  and  their  daughter  up  in  the  hotel  sitting-room 
and  forgot  all  about  them.  Luckily  they  arrived  soon  after ; 
no  doubt  they  were  used  to  his  shortness  of  memory.  We  went 
to  the  villa ;  they  liked  it,  took  it  for  a  year,  and  then  went  to 
Germany  for  the  summer. 

My  husband  had  been  suffering  from  rheumatism  and  was 
advised  to  try  the  hot  sulphur  baths  at  Bagni  di  Casciana. 
It  was  cooler  in  July  than  Florence,  being  some  five  hundred 
feet  above  the  Pisan  plain  and  only  twenty  miles  from  the 
sea.  Casciana  began  life  as  Castrum  de  Aquis  about  823 
and  was  afterwards  called  Bagni  d'Aqui,  until  some  sixty 
years  ago  the  Bagni  was  coupled  to  the  little  town  of  Casciana 
on  a  hill  about  two  miles  off,  and  its  name  changed.  I  need 
hardly  add  that  the  people  of  the  Bagni  cordially  disliked 
the  inhabitants  of  Casciana.  Like  so  many  places  in  Tuscany, 
Bagni  di  Casciana  is  connected  with  the  great  Countess  Matilda 
by  a  legend  that  her  favourite  hawk  was  losing  its  feathers 
and  regained  them  after  bathing  in  the  hot  spring,  and  that 
she  then  erected  a  bath-house  for  herself.  The  health-giving 
waters  were  certainly  known  to  the  Romans,  for  many  Roman 
coins  were  found  when  the  foundations  of  the  present  baths 
were  laid  in  1 870.  Early  in  the  twelfth  century  men  and  women 
bathed  together  in  one  large  tank,  with  holes  in  the  walls  round 
in  which  they  put  their  clothes.  The  overflow  went  into  an 
open  pond  where  lepers  were  allowed  to  bathe.  Some  two 
hundred  years  later  a  separate  tank  was  constructed  for  women. 
Later,  no  doubt,  bath-houses  such  as  are  depicted  in  old  pictures 
and  prints  were  put  up.  These  were  small,  probably  made  of 
wood  and  covered  with  cloth  curtains  tightly  stretched  over 
the  framework.  They  contained  an  oval  wooden  tub,  so  deep 
that  the  water  came  up  to  the  armpits  of  the  sitting  bather, 
and  generally  large  enough  to  hold  two  persons.  The  water 
was  conducted  from  chamber  to  chamber  by  wooden  conduits. 


320  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

As  in  Hans  Memling's  picture  of  Bathsheba,  the  door  or 
curtain  was  thrown  open  to  admit  light  when  the  bather  was 
dried  and  rubbed  with  towels. 

Now  the  baths  are  excellent,  like  small  tanks  of  white 
marble,  and  everything  is  clean  and  well  managed.  The  very 
hot  water  bubbles  up  out  of  the  earth  into  a  large  tank  built 
of  brick,  and  is  clear  as  crystal.  From  this  it  flows  into  the 
separate  bathrooms,  and  the  overflow  goes  into  a  large  pond 
where,  instead  of  lepers,  horses  which  are  suffering  from 
rheumatism  stand  for  hours. 

To  geologists  the  country  round  must  be  interesting. 
The  very  metal  of  the  roads  chiefly  consisted  of  queer  fossils 
and  huge  oyster-shells,  some  as  big  as  plates.  Here  and  there 
blue  cliffs  rose  a  hundred  feet  straight  out  of  the  red  soil. 
Wild-flowers  were  abundant,  and  my  husband  and  Dr.  Wright, 
who  joined  us  there,  botanized  to  their  hearts'  content, 
while  I  admired  the  gorgeous  butterflies.  At  Terriciola, 
where  once  stood  a  strong  castle  the  object  of  great  dispute 
between  Pisa  and  Florence  in  bygone  days,  the  front  of  a 
fine  Etruscan  cinerary  urn,  which  had  been  found  in  a  field 
close  by  some  years  before,  was  built  into  the  wall  of  the 
sacristan's  cottage.  The  old  man  said  it  was  "  a  pagan  with 
animals,"  and  the  reclining  figure  above  he  explained  as 
"  their  idea  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  poor  people."  The  country 
round  was  tunnelled  with  caves,  and  the  peasants  kept  their 
wheat  in  the  old  cisterns  cut  out  of  the  rock,  much  as  they  do 
in  Malta. 

Above  the  Bagni  stood  the  ruins  of  the  castle  of  Parlascio 
on  a  bluff  of  rock.  The  view  from  there  was  splendid.  Monte 
Moro  above  Leghorn  stood  out  black  against  the  sky,  and  the 
sea  stretched  away  far  to  the  horizon  beyond.  Pisa,  embedded 
in  a  lush  green  plain,  with  mountains  rising  in  ridges  behind, 
lay  beyond  a  queer  land  of  rounded,  water-washed  hillocks, 
each  one  crowned  by  a  grey  village  clustering  round  a  tall  ^«' 
campanile,  while  to  our  right  was  Volterra  perched  on  the 
edge  of  a  high  hill.  On  one  side  of  the  door  of  the  little 
church  of  Parlascio  a  marble  head  with  a  Gothic  inscription 
had  been  built  into  the  wall,  and  on  the  other  a  longer  Gothic 


REMINISCENCES  321 

inscription  surrounded  the  bas-relief  of  a  bishop.  "  Poveriniy 
they  died  a  thousand  years  ago,  they  were  priests,"  said  a 
peasant  woman.  But  the  most  striking  place  near  Casciana 
was  Lari,  on  a  hill.  In  the  centre  of  the  market-place  stood 
a  quadrangular  castle,  built  of  red  brick.  The  splendid  massive 
walls  were  so  high  that  we  had  to  toil  up  ninety-five  steep 
steps  to  reach  the  courtyard,  decorated  with  the  arms  and 
escutcheons  in  Delia  Robbia  ware  of  the  various  Vicarii  who 
ruled  all  the  country  round  for  Florence  after  the  fall  of  the 
Pisan  Republic  in  1406. 

Many  of  the  peasant  girls  were  handsome  ;  dark,  with 
fine  features  and  magnificent  eyes.  From  carrying  jars  of 
water,  bundles  of  grass  for  their  cattle  and  baskets  of  fruit, 
on  their  heads,  they  walked  with  the  graceful  swing  of  an 
Arab.  The  men  too  were  better-looking  than  usual  in  Tuscany, 
and  had  peculiarly  small  round-shaped  heads,  which  I  was  told 
denoted  an  Etruscan  ancestry.  When  we  returned  to  Poggio 
Gherardo  in  August  I  found  a  letter  from  Nauheim  : — 


Samuel  L.  Clemens  to  Janet  Ross. 

Bad  Nauheim,  August  9,   1892. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

It  will  not  be  possible  to  thank  you  adequately  for 
all  your  kindnesses  to  us,  in  words  ;  but  we  feel  them  and 
appreciate  them,  that  we  can  do,  in  full  measure,  and  that  we 
do  do. 

Your  note  of  caution  arrived  this  morning  ;  it  makes  me 
fear  that  things  are  happening  on  the  frontier  that  we  ar? 
ignorant  of.  And  that  may  be,  for  we  have  no  source  of  in- 
formation but  German  newspapers.  They  ought  not  to  be 
printed — it  is  a  waste  of  good  ink.  They  are  more  valuable 
as  clean  blank  paper  to  wrap  up  things  in  than  they  are  after 
they  have  been  smutched  with  stingy  little  paragraphs  of 
idiotic  and  uninforming  information. 

We  are  packing  and  shall  go  to  Frankfort  Saturday,  and 
begin    telegraphing    the    officials    on    the    Swiss    and    Italian 


322  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

frontiers  through  their  Frankfort  consuls.  If  we  find  we  can 
pass  without  detention  we  shall  start  either  next  Monday  or 
Tuesday. 

Sincerely  yours, 

S.  L.  Clemens." 

The  Clemens  family  were  very  pleasant  neighbours.  He 
used  to  drop  in  at  all  hours,  declaring  that  Poggio  Gherardo 
was  the  nearest  way  to  everywhere.  I  confess  I  preferred 
Mr.  Clemens,  keen-sighted,  sensible,  and  large-hearted,  to 
the  amusing,  laughter-provoking  Mark  Twain.  Mrs.  Clemens, 
one  of  the  most  charming  and  gentlest  of  women,  was  already 
in  very  bad  health,  and  her  husband's  devotion,  and  almost 
womanly  tenderness  to  her,  was  very  touching.  One  evening 
we  persuaded  him  to  sing  some  of  the  real  negro  songs ;  it 
was  a  revelation.  Without  much  voice  and  with  little  or  no 
knowledge  of  music  (he  played  the  bass  notes  hard  with  one 
fmger)  he  moved  us  all  in  a  wonderful  way.  It  was  quite 
different  from  what  one  had  generally  heard  sung  as  "  negro 
melodies." 

The  following  letter  from  my  cousin  Sir  Arthur  Gordon 
(afterwards  Lord  Stanmore)  describes  an  accident  to 
Mr.  Gladstone  which  I  do  not  think  is  generally  known, 
and  which  was  borne  in  a  manner  very  characteristic  of  the 
man  : — 

Sir  Arthur  Gordon  to  Janet  Ross. 

Hawardcn  Castle,  Chester,  October  i8,  1892. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Lacaita  was  very  unwell  for  some  time  before  he  left 
London,  and  the  day  he  crossed  was  a  rough  one  ;  a  circum- 
stance which  always  greatly  affects  him.  I  should  be  immensely 
obliged  if  you  would  find  time  to  write  a  line  to  tell  me  in 
what  condition  he  has  arrived  at  Florence. 

My  daughter  and  I  are  going  to  spend  a  month,  not  in  Italy, 
but  in  Scotland,  and  are  now  on  our  way  to  Haddo,  to  which 
place  please  address  your  letter  if  you  write  to  me.     Our 


REMINISCENCES  323 

journey  to  Malta  is  now  postponed  till  January.  Shall  we 
find  you  at  Leucaspide,  if  we  return  that  way  ?  I  hope  so  ; 
for  it  would  greatly  enhance  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  there. 

I  walked  in  the  procession  at  Lord  Tennyson's  funeral 
last  week,  and  was  thus  able  to  see  what  appeared  to  me  the 
most  striking  feature  of  the  ceremony  ;  the  enormous  crowd 
which  filled  every  portion  of  the  abbey,  and  through  which 
we  passed  on  our  long  progress  up  the  nave,  and  through  the 
choir  and  north  transept  to  the  grave.  There  was  perhaps  some- 
thing slightly  theatrical  in  some  of  the  ceremonies ;  the  Union 
Jack,  as  at  a  military  funeral,  and  the  fussiness  with  which 
purple  was  substituted  for  the  usual  black.  But  with  what- 
ever drawbacks,  it  was  a  most  impressive  scene.  Mine  host, 
though  he  begins  to  show  some  signs  of  ageing,  is  still  certainly 
a  G.O.M.  physically  as  well  as  intellectually.  Most  old  gentle- 
men of  eighty-three  would  have  been  killed  by  the  shock 
of  being  thrown  down  flat  on  his  back  by  the  butt  of  a  cow. 
He  only,  as  he  expressed  it,  '  withdrew  himself  '  from  under 
the  cow,  and  retired,  facing  her,  to  the  shelter  of  an  oak  tree, 
where  he  sat  down  '  rather  out  of  breath.'  But  he  said  nothing 
about  it  till  evening,  when  he  complained  that  he  was  rather 
stiff,  as  a  cow  had  knocked  him  down.  Discussion  rages  all 
day  as  to  the  new  Poet  Laureate.  Mr.  G.  raises  a  very  Glad- 
stonian  distinction  between  the  best  English  Poet  and  the  best 
Poet  Laureate.  I  mean  the  best  to  fill  that  court  office.  As 
you  know.  Mr.  G.  goes  every  morning  to  early  service  at  the 
parish  church  and  loudly  repeats  the  responses.  It  was  rather 
striking  to  hear  him  roll  forth  this  morning,  '  the  days  of  man 
are  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  though  man  be  so  strong 
that  he  come  to  fourscore  years,  yet  is  his  strength  then  but 
labour  and  sorrow,  so  soon  passeth  he  away  and  we  are  gone.' 
Labour  he  has  in  plenty,  but  his  fourscore  years  are  hardly 
*  full  of  sorrow.'    May  I  ask  to  be  remembered  to  Mr.  Ross  ? 

Yours  truly, 

A.  Gordon." 

Early  in  November  I  had  a  few  lines  from  Symonds  an- 
nouncing that  Michelangelo  had  been  a  real  success  and  that  he 


324  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

liked  my  review  of  it  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.  The  second 
enlarged  edition  of  Three  Generations  of  English  Women 
was  also  published  in  November  by  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin,  and 
I  had  many  letters  of  congratulation.  Among  others  from 
dear  old  St.  Hilaire,  and  from  Henry  Reeve,  who  wrote  : — 


Henry  Reeve  to  Janet  Ross. 

„-,     .        T  Foxholes,  December  20,  1802. 

"  My  dear  Janet,  '  '       ^ 

It  is  time  to  wish  you  the  compliments  of  the  season 
and  all  happiness  for  the  New  Year.  Unwin  has  sent  me  the 
new  edition  of  your  book,  with  which  I  am  perfectly  delighted. 
I  heartily  congratulate  you,  for  it  is  an  admirable  piece  of 
quiet  family  biography.  I  have  read  it  all  through  with 
increased  pleasure  and  I  have  endeavoured  to  trace  out  the 
additions.  There  are  many  things  I  do  not  find  in  the  first 
edition — Sydney  Smith's  letters,  a  letter  or  two  of  Carlyle, 
and  the  excellent  sketch  of  Mr.  Austin's  life  and  character. 

The  French  are  (as  usual)  in  search  of  a  Dictator  to  get 
them  out  of  their  scrapes.  Carnot  (worthy  man)  is  not  up 
to  a  Dictatorship,  and  there  is  no  one  else.  Even  the  Royal 
Family  are  worked  out.    They  will  have  to  take  a  Corporal ! 

Yours  affectionately, 

Henry  Reeve." 

In  February,  1893,  my  cousins  Sir  William  Markby  and  his 
wife  came  to  stay  with  us  and  liked  Mr.  Clemens  as  much  as 
we  did.  He  came  to  dine  several  times  and  we  had  planned 
some  excursion  together,  when  I  received  the  following 
note  : — 

iS.  L.  Cleinens  to  Janet  Ross. 

Villa  Viviani,  Settignano,  M^r<:^  20,  1893  (iV/^/^;!), 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

It  was  my  purpose  to  run  in  and  indulge  my  great 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  Sir  WilHam  and  my  Lady  a  little 


REMINISCENCES  325 

more,  and  I  count  it  a  loss  that  I  failed  o£  the  chance  ;  but  my 
time  has  been  taken  up  in  clearing  the  decks  for  America. 
I  shall  go  over  and  pay  my  dinner-call  the  moment  I  get  back 
from  America.  This  seems  unprompt ;  but  I  have  a  trained 
conscience,  and  I  quiet  it  by  telling  it  I  am  on  my  road  to 
pay  it  now^  merely  going  by  the  way  of  New  York  and  Chicago 
for  the  sake  of  variety,  and  because  it  is  much  more  creditable 
to  go  8000  miles  to  pay  a  dinner-call  than  it  is  to  go  a  mere 
matter  of  600  yards.     Auf  zoiedersehen. 

S.  L.  Clemens." 

Symonds  had  been  invited  to  give  a  lecture  on  Michelangelo 
at  Florence ;  "  an  absurd  affair,"  he  remarked,  "  but  the  honour 
is  so  great  that  I  could  not  refuse."  At  the  same  time  he  had 
promised  Sir  James  Lacaita  to  go  with  his  daughter  to  Leucas- 
pide,  and  had  run  things  rather  fine.  He  wrote  to  ask  me 
whether  it  would  not  be  possible  to  have  the  lecture  trans- 
lated into  Italian  and  read  for  him  ;  "  it  seems  so  ridiculous 
to  read  it  in  English." 

I  went  at  once  to  Cav.  Bruschi,  librarian  of  the  Marucelliana, 
to  whom  everyone  appeals  when  they  want  help,  and  he 
suggested  Signora  Falorsi  as  translator,  and  said  he  was  sure 
that  excellent  critic  and  lecturer,  Professor  Nencioni,  who  had 
the  greatest  admiration  for  Symonds'  work,  would  read  it. 
I  wrote  to  Leucaspide  to  tell  my  Historian  what  I  had  done, 
and  received  two  letters  in  reply,  full,  as  I  expected,  of 
admiration  for  Leucaspide  and  the  country  round  : — 

J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Leucaspide,  March  24,   1893. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

We   came  here  last  night,   and   I   found  your  letter. 
Thank  you  very  much.    I  send  the  MS.  of  my  lecture. 

The  excellent  Senator  has  given  me  his  library  and  a  little 
bedroom   opening   out   upon  the   lemon  terrazzo,  where  the 
violets  are  all  in  bloom.    He  is  all  kindness  and  hospitality. 
There    is    something   extremely    fine   in   the    broad   sweep 


326  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

of  view  from  this  height — that  exquisite  curve  of  the  bay 
toward  Metaponte  with  the  silver  shimmer  of  hght  along 
its  margin — and  then  the  olive  trees  along  the  coast  and, 
nearer,  dotted  over  the  green  of  the  young  corn  with  sombre 
shadows.    I  feel  already  that  I  should  learn  to  love  it. 

I  have  already  been  into  two  of  the  Gravine  :  one  of  them 
at  a  distance  from  the  house,  where  Sir  James  is  rebuilding 
a  masseria,  is  a  very  picturesque  and  interesting  place.  All 
the  grey  rocks  are  bloomed  over  with  blue-grey  rosemary. 
But  there  are  few  signs  of  flowers  and  the  earth  is  like  iron. 
They  say  that  the  drought  of  the  season  has  been  most  in- 
jurious to  the  country. 

On  the  Adriatic  coast  I  did  not  notice  so  much  dryness. 
And  never  have  I  seen  anything  to  equal  the  orchards  between 
Bari  and  Bitonto.  Fortunately  I  drove  out  in  an  open  carriage 
by  a  road  different  from  the  tramway  ;  and  here  in  a  more 
protected  situation  the  almonds  and  peaches  in  bloom  mixed 
with  the  olives  are  magnificent. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

J.  A.  S." 

J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Leucaspide,  March  25,   1893. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  am  sure  that  you  will  be  interested  to  know  the 
little  events  here.  So  before  going  to  bed  I  shall  write  a  few 
lines. 

Now  I  must  begin  by  saying  that  I  have  danced  the  Pizzica, 
with  what  applause  I  dare  not  tell  you.  It  satisfied  my  English 
awkwardness.  I  think  Madge  stirred  the  Pizzica  up  this 
morning.  But  at  all  events  it  came  off  to-night.  The  people 
have  heavy  hearts,  however.  All  their  crops  are  ruincil 
by  the  drought.  The  oHves  have  been  nothing,  and  you 
know  what  that  means  here.  The  Guardiano,  Vit'  Anton, 
Isabella  and  the  kitchen-boy,  and  one  of  the  musicians  who 
came  from  Massafra  were  admirable.  Madge  looked  pretty, 
but   rather   romped   about   the   place.      Sir   Arthur   Gordon 


REMINISCENCES  327 

turned  round  like  a  hop-pole.  I  tried  to  skip  in  a  '  frac  ' 
and  felt  very  stiff.  How  I  envied  the  scullion-boy's  beautiful 
toes.  I  have  been  out  walking  all  day.  In  the  morning  through 
the  fields  of  olive  westward  for  three  hours.  In  the  afternoon 
I  went  to  your  Mater  Gratia,  and  made  friends  with  the 
funny  old  man  who  hves  there,  and  saw  a  party  of  contadini 
— mother  and  daughter  and  sposo — paying  their  devotions, 
for  what  purpose  I  could  only  guess,  at  the  rustic  shrine. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  Httle  living  bit  plucked  out  of  old  Greek 
life.  So  like  something  in  Alciphron  or  Longus.  (A  visit 
to  the  Nymphs  or  Arcadian  Artemis.)  There  is  a  dell  in  that 
Gravina,  where  the  asphodels  are  in  full  bloom,  and  the  spring 
seems  to  have  come. 

I  am  already  in  love  v^dth  the  place.  But  I  do  wish  you 
were  here.  I  am  afraid  that  our  old  friend  the  Senatore 
is  very  near  to  failing.  He  likes  his  friends  about  him,  and 
he  takes  thought  for  everybody  in  the  most  affectionate 
and  charming  way.  But  he  is  fatigued  ;  and  I  think  the 
presence  of  guests  would  be  bad  for  him,  were  it  not  com- 
pensated by  the  pleasure  he  takes  in  being  kind  to  others 
and  hearing  movement  in  his  neighbourhood. 

March  29. — Some  days  have  elapsed  since  I  wrote  the 
last.  And  now  I  have  seen  more,  and  lived  into  far  more, 
of  Leucaspide.  I  have  walked  for  two  hours  up  the  Gravina, 
have  walked  to  Statte  and  all  over  it,  have  walked  to  the 
Tavola  del  Paladino  and  the  Gravina  di  San  Giovanni,  have 
driven  into  Taranto  and  seen  the  Tesoro  (such  as  it  is)  and  the 
Duomo,  have  driven  to  Massafra  and  gone  about  the  town  and 
the  ravines  thereof.  I  am  chokeful  of  Leucaspide  and  its 
natural  beauties. 

Lord  and  Lady  Wantage  have  been  added  to  the  party  ; 
and  that  is  enough  to  say  that  it  has  become  most  sociably 
pleasant.  Madge  is  having  a  '  high  old  time.'  She  will  tell 
you  all  about  it  in  her  young,  enthusiastic  style,  which  is  so 
different  from  my  dried  almonds  and  withered  ligs  of  ex- 
perience.   Recommend  me  to  the  Padrone. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

J.  A.  Symonds." 


328  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

A  few  days  later    he  wrote  from  Salerno,  on  the  way  to 
Rome  : — 


J.  A.  Symonds  to  Janet  Ross. 

Salerno,  Afril  3,  1893. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

We  came  from  Taranto  yesterday  and  saw  Paestum 
to-day.  I  am  anxious  about  Catherine  [Mrs.  Symonds], 
Last  Friday  came  a  telegram  to  say  she  was  down  at  Venice 
with  gastric  fever.  I  have  had  daily  telegrams  since  and  hope 
the  attack  is  quite  a  light  one. 

The  last  days  at  Leucaspide  were  very  pleasant.  We  all 
planted  olive  trees  on  Friday  morning.  The  Senatore  seemed 
to  fluctuate  in  health.  But  his  spirits  were  wonderful.  He 
brightened  in  society  and  told  the  most  charming  stories. 
My  anxiety  about  my  wife  prevented  me  from  going  to  Oria 
or  Manduria.  But  I  drove  with  Madge  to  Luperano  and 
Pulsano. 

It  is  very  good  of  you  to  have  engaged  Nencioni  for  the 
reading  of  my  lecture.  He  shall  certainly,  as  you  suggest, 
have  a  copy  of  the  Renaissance.  I  read  the  Land  of  Manfred 
again  on  my  journey  and  find  it  admirable  on  the  spot.  It 
is  only  too  full  of  various  information,  and  suffers  perhaps 
a  little  by  want  of  composition — I  mean  throwing  into  relief 
and  subordination.    I  am  too  tired  to  write  more. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  A.  S." 

Just  before  going  into  Florence  to  the  lecture  on  the  15th 
April  I  got  a  short  note  from  Symonds  saying  that  it  was  a  good 
thing  that  someone  else  was  to  read  his  paper,  as  he  was  in 
bed  with  a  bad  cold  and  sore  throat,  adding  :  "  Would  it  suit 
you  if  Madge  and  I  were  to  come  to  Poggio  on  Monday  or 
Tuesday  next  week  ?  I  am  so  stupid  that  I  can  think  of 
nothing.  So  good-bye."  The  lecture  was  exceedingly  well 
translated  by  Signora  Falorsi,  and  Signor  Nencioni,  prefacing 


REMINISCENCES  329 

it  with  a  few  graceful  words  of  praise  of  S}anonds  and  of  regret 
that  he  had  not  dehvered  the  lecture  himself,  read  it  admirably. 
All  the  time  I  sat  listening  and  wishing  that  my  Historian 
could  hear  the  applause  I  had  a  feeling  of  intense  anxiety. 
Alas  !  The  last  word  of  his  letter  was  prophetic.  He  died 
almost  at  the  moment  I  received  his  letter,  and  we  had  un- 
wittingly been  applauding  the  words  of  a  dead  man.  I  only 
knew  the  sad  news  late  in  the  evening  from  Lord  Ronald 
Gower,  who  telegraphed  from  Florence,  having  heard  from 
a  friend  in  Rome.  Madge  had  telegraphed  to  me,  but  evidently 
the  message  was  never  sent  or  got  mislaid.  What  his  loss 
was  to  me  I  cannot  express.  Ever-ready  advice,  sympathy, 
kindly  encouragement  and  criticism,  and  perfect  friendship 
he  gave  with  open  hands.  After  listening  to  his  brilliant 
talk  one  felt  as  though  cobwebs  had  been  brushed  away  from 
one's  brain.  Even  now,  after  so  many  years,  I  often  find 
myself  sadly  wondering  what  he  would  think  or  advise.  He 
was  too  young  to  die. 


;4S   V 

A 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

S  usual,  I  sent  Signor  some  flowers  on  his  birthday 
in  February ;  as  I  got  no  acknowledgment  I 
was  afraid  he  might  be  ill,  but  later  his  wife 
wTote  : — 

Mrs.  Watts  to  Janet  Ross. 


Limnerslease,  Guildford,  Jpril  26,  1893. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  am  filled  with  shame  and  remorse  when  I  think  of 
your  beautiful  roses  and  violets,  the  sweetest  of  greetings  ; 
which  came  so  well  timed  and  were  on  Signor's  breakfast- 
table  on  his  birthday,  and  yet  have  not  been  thanked  for. 
It  was  the  sweetest  of  messages  and  the  one  he  cares  most  to 
have.  The  flowers  went  into  the  studio  and  have  helped  in  a 
picture  of  a  little  lazy  boy-sprite  among  flowers. 

You  will  have  been  sorrowful  lately  for  the  death  of  your 
dear  friend  Mr.  Symonds.  He  is  a  great  loss  to  the  world. 
"We  have  not  had  his  Michelangelo  yet,  but  we  look  forward  to 
reading  it  together.  You  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  Signor 
has  been  painting  another  friend  of  yours  and  of  Lady  Duff 
Gordon's,  whose  memory  seems  green  and  beautiful  in  his 
mind  still.  I  mean  Mr.  George  Meredith.  Signor  had  long 
wished  to  have  his  portrait  among  the  representative  men  he 
has  painted.  I  think  it  will  be  fine.  The  last  sitting  is  to  be 
towards  the  end  of  May,  if  both  are  well.  Mr.  Meredith  is 
very  attractive  to  me.  He  is  better  than  his  work.  I  mean 
he  gives  himself  out  more  simply  and  with  as  fine  a  touch 
when  he  talks.     I  had  the  delight  of  sitting  by  when  Signor 

3:0 


REMINISCENCES  331 

painted,  and  to  be  ears  for  both  ;  alas,  both  are  rather  deaf 
and  both  are  frail  in  body.  Mr.  Meredith  is  working  hard  and 
is  crowned  with  honour  in  his  old  age,  much  as  my  dear  one 
is.  It  seems  to  be  the  seal  of  the  true  prophet,  to  be  reviled  at 
first,  then  tolerated,  and  then  crowned,  and  if  they  live  to  have 
grey  hairs  crowned  one  can  wish  for  nothing  better  for  them. 
Signor's  love  and  he  will  write  some  day  himself. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

M.  E.  Watts." 

A  few  days  later  I  received  the  following  note  from  Mr. 
Clemens  enclosing  two  letters  printed  in  some  American 
newspaper  of  which  he  sent  me  the  cuttings : — 


S.  L.  Clemens  to  Janet  Ross. 

Chicago,  April  14,  1893. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  asked  Secretary  Morton  to  send  some  water-melon 
seeds — and  told  him  I  had  a  key  to  your  garden  and  that  you 
kept  no  dog  I  was  afraid  of.    Here  is  his  answer. 

Yours  sincerely, 

S.  L.  Clemens. 

Dear  Mr.  Mark  Twain, 

I  have  your  note  of  the  i8th  petitioning  for  choice 
breeds  of  seed  corn,  and  promising  in  return  therefore  to 
support  the  Administration  in  all  ways,  honourable  and  other- 
wise. 

The  support  you  offer  is  so  strong  that  the  seed  corn  is  for- 
warded at  once.  It  is  hoped  that  the  '  crop  of  support '  may 
be  much  larger  than  is  now  promised  among  some  of  our  friends 
in  New  York. 

I  am  much  pleased  that  you  are  become  an  agent  for  the 
introduction  of  corn  as  a  food  amon^r  the  Italians,  and  it  is 


332  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

to  be  hoped  that  by  a  vigorous  effort  on  the  part  of  the  EngHsh 
lady  who  is  to  cultivate  the  cornfield  and  a  strong  appetite 
upon  your  part  when  the  corn  shall  have  been  grown  and 
boiled,  that  this  delicious  food  may  be  popularized  among  the 
deluded  consumers  of  macaroni.  The  water-melon  seeds  are 
also  sent,  and  will  no  doubt  produce  fruit  calculated  to  inspire 
larceny  among  all  the  youthful  lazzaroni  who  may  long  for 
lusciousness. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  Sterling  Morton. 
Here  is  also  the  letter  I  wrote  him  : — 

To  the  Honble.  J.  Sterling  Morton. 

Dear  Sir, — Your  petitioner  Mark  Twain,  a  poor  farmer  of 
Connecticut — indeed  the  poorest  one  there  in  the  opinion 
of  envy — desires  a  few  choice  breeds  of  seed  corn  and  in  return 
will  zealously  support  the  Administration  in  all  ways  honourable 
and  otherwise.  To  speak  by  the  card,  I  want  these  things  to 
carry  to  Italy  to  an  English  lady.  She  is  a  neighbour  of  mine 
outside  Florence,  and  has  a  great  garden,  and  thinks  she  could 
raise  corn  for  her  table  if  she  had  the  right  ammunition. 
I  myself  feel  a  warm  interest  in  this  enterprise,  both  on 
patriotic  grounds  and  because  I  have  a  key  to  that  garden, 
which  I  got  made  from  a  wax  impression.  It  is  not  very  good 
soil,  still  I  think  she  could  raise  enough  for  one  table,  and  I 
am  in  a  position  to  select  that  table.  If  you  are  willing  to  aid 
and  abet  a  countryman  (and  Gilder  thinks  you  are)  please  find 
the  signature  and  address  of  your  petitioner  below.  Respect- 
fully yours. 

Mark  Twain, 

No.  67  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 

P.S. — A  handful  of  choice  (Southern)  water-melon  seeds 
would  pleasantly  add  to  that  lady's  employments  and  give 
my  table  a  corresponding  lift." 


REMINISCENCES  333 

Mr.  Clemens  had  insisted  that  no  corn  (i.e.  maize)  was 
grown  in  Italy,  and  when  he  dined  with  us  before  leaving 
for  America  he  promised  to  send  me  "  real  corn  "  together 
with  water-melon  seeds.  The  latter  were,  however,  not  nearly 
so  good  as  our  own. 

In  July  our  doctor  sent  us  to  the  baths  of  Rapolano,  not  far 
from  Siena.  He  warned  us  that  we  might  find  the  accommo- 
dation poor,  but  said  the  waters  were  wonderfully  good. 
The  inn  was  certainly  primitive  and  uncomfortable.  My 
maid  dined  with  us  at  the  table  d'hote  (so  called)  and  was  much 
offended  by  the  host  saying  to  her  as  he  triumphantly  brought 
in  two  very  thin  roast  chickens  :  "  There,  I'm  sure  your 
Padroni  don't  get  roast  fowls  to  eat  every  day."  She  answered  : 
"  No,  they  have  better  things,  we  eat  the  chickens,"  a  statement 
he  treated  with  silent  contempt.  Ten  hot  baths  cured  Henry's 
sciatica  and  I  took  two,  which  brought  out  dormant  rheumatism 
in  my  right  shoulder  so  painfully  that  I  retired  to  bed  and 
exhausted  the  village  chemist's  supply  of  chloroform.  But 
my  arm  did  not  hurt  me  again  for  several  years. 

The  country  round  Rapolano  was  picturesque  and  curious. 
We  had  noticed  an  odd  intermittent  puffing  noise  which  came 
from  a  wood  not  far  from  the  village — like  an  engine  blowing 
off  steam  at  intervals.  Our  coachman  offered  to  drive  us  there, 
but  not  too  near,  as  it  was  dangerous.  Leaving  the  carriage, 
we  walked  through  high  heather  under  oak  trees  towards  the 
noise,  and  came  upon  broken  bits  of  masonry  and  stone  before 
reaching  a  large  bare  spot,  out  of  the  centre  of  which  a  strong 
puff  of  very  nasty  smelling  air  suddenly  burst  out  of  a  hole 
about  a  foot  and  a  half  wide,  while  a  shower  of  small  stones 
fell  near  us.  Then  all  was  quiet  again.  A  small  boy  appeared 
who  said  :  "  I'll  wake  the  devil  for  you,  only  go  farther  away." 
He  threw  a  stone  into  the  hole  and  then  ran  fast  towards  us. 
Underground  rumbling  began,  than  came  an  explosion  of 
mephitic  gas,  and  stones,  some  as  big  as  cricket-balls,  shot  high 
up  in  the  air.  The  devil  evidently  resented  being  interfered 
with.  He  had  indeed  shown  this  when  the  owner  of  the  wood 
some  time  before  tried  to  turn  this  blow-hole  to  practical  use 
by  building  a  saw-mill  round  it  of  which  the  devil  was  to  be  the 


334  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

motive  power.  All  went  well  till  the  roof  was  finished,  when 
a  big  explosion  blew  the  building  to  pieces  and  killed  two 
masons.  The  pieces  of  masonry  we  had  seen  were  the  remains 
of  the  mill. 

At  the  baths  the  familiar  and  very  nasty  rotten-egg  odour 
of  sulphurous  water  was  mixed  with  other  disagreeable  smells, 
and  on  one  side  a  bit  of  land  had  been  enclosed.  Some  years 
before  a  man,  tired  after  his  hot  bath,  lay  down  to  sleep  here 
and  was  found  dead,  so  a  high  wall  had  been  built.  The  people 
told  me  birds  were  sometimes  picked  up  just  outside  the  en- 
closure killed  by  the  poisonous  fumes.  I  was  not  sorry  to  leave 
Rapolano.  It  was  rather  unheimlich,  besides  being  uncom- 
fortable. 

In  September  Henry  Reeve  wrote  to  me  from  Chantilly, 
where  he  was  spending  his  eightieth  birthday  with  the  Due 
d'Aumale,  about  some  Italian  novels  noticed  in  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Monies.  He  asked  me  to  read  them  with  a  view  to  a 
possible  article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Novels  never  had 
any  great  attraction  for  me,  and  had  it  not  been  for  a  severe 
attack  of  lumbago  I  never  should  have  had  the  patience  to 
wade  through  so  many — some  excellent,  but  many  the  reverse. 
However,  my  article  on  the  popular  literature  of  Italy  was 
accepted  and  declared  to  be  "  highly  satisfactory  and  very 
interesting."  But  what  pleased  me  far  more  was  that  Henry 
Reeve  added  that  some  Poggio  Gherardo  wine  we  had  sent  him 
was  the  best  Italian  wine  he  had  ever  tasted,  good  enough 
to  pass  as  good  French  wine. 

In  February,  1894,  ^  small  box  of  violets  went  to  Signor, 
and  Mrs.  Watts  wrote  : — 


Mrs.  Watts  to  Janet  Ross. 

Limnerslease,  Guildford,  February  26,  1894. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

I  must  not  wait  till  Signor  can  write  himself  to  tell  you 
how  exquisitely  well  timed  your  little  sweet  Parma  violets 
were — arriving  just  as  we  were  sitting  round  the  birthday 


REMINISCENCES  335 

luncheon-table.  Signer  supported  by  my  little  wee  nephew 
and  niece  (who  had  just  been  page  and  bridesmaid  and  were 
dressed  in  their  picturesque  Vandyke  costume  to  take  Signer 
to  his  seat  of  honour).  '  Violets,'  Signor  gave  out,  and  reading 
out  '  from  your  affectionate  Janet,'  the  small  boy  (of  four 
years)  remarked  '  What  Janet  ?  '  (being  Scotch  he  had  one 
of  his  own  and  had  a  right  to  enquire),  which  was  received 
with  shouts  of  laughter  and  '  Signor,  indeed  you  have  too  many 
Janets,'  from  the  elders.  It  was  a  very  happy  birthday  alto- 
gether. It  so  happened  that  your  wine  was  at  the  feast  and 
everyone  liked  it.  I  cannot  pretend  to  judge,  being  almost  a 
teetotaller  from  habit,  but  as  it  is  for  our  friends  I  am  glad 
to  think  it  is  so  good.  How  dear  and  kind  and  clever  of  you 
to  remember  his  birthday,  it  does  make  it  a  happy  day  for  him 
now,  for  it  calls  forth  so  many  kindly  words  and  thoughts  for 
him.  I  generally  try  to  have  children  here  for  the  day.  My 
brother's  children  are  near  us  for  this  winter  and  they  delight 
in  '  Uncle  Signor.'  The  little  girl,  who  has  a  poetic  turn  of 
mind,  told  my  sister,  with  whom  she  is  staying,  on  the  morning 
of  the  birthday,  that  she  was  sure  all  the  birds  and  everything 
loved  Signor,  as  she  had  heard  them  singing  so  loud  that 
day. 

He  was  very  well  on  Friday,  but  since  then  a  change  in  the 
weather  or  something  has  knocked  him  up,  and  when  your 
letter  arrived  on  Saturday  he  could  not  hold  up  his  head  to 
open  it,  or  we  should  certainly  have  sent  a  telegram  of  good 
wishes  for  your  78th  !  !  !  birthday.^  As  that  could  not  be 
he  waits  to  see  what  is  being  done  from  his  portrait  of  Mr. 
Meredith.  If  the  result  is  good  he  must  send  his  dear  contem- 
porary a  proof.  I  know  you  will  like  it  for  the  sake  of  both 
the  friends. 

Signor's  dear  love  and  thanks. 

Yours  affectionately, 

M.  E.  Watts." 

'  "Signor's  "  birthday  was  on  the  23rd  February,  mine  on  the  24th,  80  ignoring 
the  difference  in  years,  he  always  said  we  were  contemporaries,  divided  by  only 
twenty-four  hours. 


536  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

For  some  months  we  had  been  very  anxious  about  our  dear 
friend  Sir  Henry  Layard.  He  died  on  July  5  and  my  husband 
felt  his  death  keenly.  Their  friendship  dated  from  1 845,  when 
Layard  arrived  at  Mosul,  and  Henry,  who  was  known  far  and 
near  as  a  great  sportsman,  took  him,  under  the  pretext  of  a 
hunting  expedition,  to  the  mounds  which  covered  the  ruins 
of  Nineveh.  They  carried  a  pickaxe  with  them,  and  when  one 
was  tired  the  other  wielded  the  pick.  My  husband  often  de- 
scribed their  intense  excitement  when  the  first  bit  of  a  marble 
head  appeared.  When  Layard  left  for  England  in  1847  Henry 
carried  on  the  excavations  at  Konyounjik.^  To  me  Sir  Henry 
was  always  the  best  and  staunchest  of  friends.  A  real  friend, 
because  he  never  hesitated  about  telling  me  of  my  faults. 
The  impulsiveness  which  made  him  so  lovable  in  private 
stood  in  his  way  in  public  life.  Generous  and  high-couraged 
to  a  fault,  he  would  rush  into  the  fray,  and  occasionally  make 
assertions  he  could  not  prove  without  giving  the  name  of  his 
informant  and  getting  him  into  trouble — a  thing  he  would 
rather  have  died  than  do.  A  sentence  in  one  of  his  letters  to 
me  as  a  young  girl :  "  I  am  always  getting  into  hot  water,"  ^ 
was  only  too  true.  He  had  many  enemies,  but  far  more  friends 
who  loved  him  deeply,  and  felt  how  much  sunshine  had  gone 
out  from  their  lives  with  the  loss  of  his  handsome,  cheery  face, 
with  those  kind  blue  eyes,  and  the  hearty  shake  of  his  helpful 
hand. 

I  wrote  to  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  on  his  eighty-ninth 
birthday  and  his  answer  was  written  in  the  same  beautifully 
clear  handwriting  as  the  first  letter  I  received  from  him  with 
such  pride  as  a  very  small  girl  in  1848.  Then  I  could  not  read 
or  understand  it,  but  that  did  not  matter,  the  great  French 
"  fewlosophee,"  as  I  called  him,  had  written  me  a  letter  all 
for  myself  addressed  to  Madlle.  Duff  Gordon.  Now,  fifty-four 
years  later,  he  wrote  : — 

1   See.  Letten  from  the  East,  hy  W.  ].'R.o%%, -p.  i^().    Dent  and  Son,  London.    1902, 
3   Page  77. 


REMINISCENCES  337 

M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Boulevard  Flandrin  4,  Septembre  12,  1894. 

"  Chere  Janet,  chere  petite-niece, 

Votre  lettre  du  9  m'a  fait  grand  plaisir  ;  et  je  vous 
remercie  de  vos  voeux  que  je  vous  rends  bien  cordialement. 
Je  suis  entre  dans  ma  90  annee,  le  19  Aout.  Heureusement 
Dieu  me  permet  de  travailler  a  peu  pres  comme  par  le  passe. 
C'est  une  grace  assez  rare. 

Je  congois  vos  regrets  de  la  perte  de  M.  Layard  ;  c'etait 
un  ami  bien  ancien.  II  y  a  plus  de  quarante  ans  que  je  I'ai  vu 
a  Weybridge,  quand  il  revenait  de  Ninive.  Le  Comte  de 
Paris  est  aussi  une  perte  pour  vous,  vous  I'avez  connu  pendant 
son  premier  exil.  Sa  mort  ne  change  rien  a  I'etat  de  nos 
affaires.  Elles  ne  valent  pas  beaucoup  mieux  que  celles  de 
I'ltalie.  J'ai  grande  confiance  dans  le  courage  et  le  devoue- 
ment  du  nouveau  President.  Mais  les  difficultes  sont  enormes, 
et  je  ne  sais  pas  qui  pourrait  se  flatter  de  les  surmonter.  Qu'elles 
ecuries  !  et  quel  Hercule  les  nettoira  ?  Le  General  Bonaparte 
I'a  fait  durant  quelque  temps.  Sur  une  moindre  echelle, 
Casimir  Perier,  le  grand-pere,  I'a  fait  aussi  en  183 1 ;  mais  en 
1894,  ^'^^^  \>\Qn  autre  chose.  A  la  grace  de  Dieu,  'qui 
protege  la  France,'  disent  nos  monnaies. 

La  semaine  prochaine  j'aurai  deux  volumes  d'imprimes  sur 
trois,  chacun  de  700  pages,  mais  d'un  gros  caractere,  tres 
lisible.  Le  tout  paraitra  vers  Novembre,  avec  une  photo- 
graphic tres  resemblante.  J'ai  donne  surtout  des  documents, 
qui  montreront  le  vrai  Cousin,  au  lieu  de  sa  caricature.  Je 
me  rappelle  au  souvenir  de  Monsieur  Ross  et  de  la  jeune 
Lina.  Bonne  sante  a  tous  trois.  La  jeunesse  verra  bien 
des  choses  dans  le  XX  siecle,  qui  sera  encore  plus  agite  que  le 
notre. 

Votre  devoue  grand-oncle, 

B.  St.  Hilaire." 


338  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

In  the  late  autumn  two  friends  of  "  Signor,"  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kerr-Lawson,  came  to  Florence  with  a  letter  asking  me  to 
do  all  I  could  to  help  them.  We  at  once  liked  both  husband 
and  wife,  but  as  "  Signor  "  did  not  say  what  Mr.  Kerr-Lawson's 
profession  was,  or  what  I  was  to  do  for  them,  I  was  rather 
puzzled.  At  last  I  asked  him  point-blank,  rather  I  think  to  his 
surprise,  as  he  thought  "  Signor  "  had  told  me  he  was  an  artist. 
They  settled  at  Settignano  until  they  found  a  charming  little 
nook,  the  old  cottage  that  had  once  belonged  to  Boccaccio's 
father  at  Corbignano.  We  became  very  intimate,  and  Kerr- 
Lawson  did  an  admirable  portrait  of  Henry  of  which  I  give 
a  reproduction. 

The  Dean  of  Lincoln,  Mrs.  Wickham,  and  some  of  their 
children  had  dined  with  us  on  New  Year's  Day  when  they 
were  in  Florence,  and  at  the  end  of  the  year  he  wrote  to 
remind  me  of  the  pleasant  day  we  had  passed  together  and 
also  to  ask  after  our  common  friend  Sir  James  Lacaita  : — 


Rev.  E.  C.  Wickham^  Dean  of  Luicoln,  to  Janet  Ross. 

Deanery,  Lincoln,  December  29,  1894. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  am  writing  at  the  general  desire  of  my  whole  family 
to  wish  you  and  Mr.  Ross  a  Happy  New  Year  and  to  tell 
you  that  we  have  not  forgotten  your  expansive  hospitality 
last  New  Year's  Day.  We  should  all  much  like  to  be  looking 
out  on  the  Val  d'Arno  and  sunning  ourselves  on  your  terrace. 
We  have  a  comfortable  house,  but  quite  sunless  at  this  time 
of  year,  as  it  is  on  the  north  side  of  our  huge  Cathedral  and 
close  up  to  it.  I  miss  also  the  beautiful  Tuscan  hills  with 
their  carpet  of  lavender  and  myrtle  and  their  lovely  views. 
Mrs.  Wickham  and  I  talk  of  taking  a  holiday  when  our  school- 
children leave  us,  in  the  south  somewhere — whether  we  shall 
get  as  far  as  Florence  I  doubt.  I  want  very  much  to  know 
what  people  on  the  spot  think  of  your  Italian  crisis.  On  the 
face  of  it  to  prorogue  Parliament  so  as  to  avoid  a  debate  on 
several  charges  against  you,  is  a  measure  only  to  be  justified 


HENRY   JAMES   ROSS. 
By  J.  Kerr  Lawson. 


REMINISCENCES  339 

by  a  fresh  appeal  to  another  open  tribunal  —  and  by  an  early 
dissolution.  And  I  gather,  but  cannot  verify  it,  that  your 
'  Secolo '  is  against  the  Government.  That  and  Rudini, 
sounds  like  a  combination  which  is  not  brought  together  by 
mere  faction.  Poor  Italy  !  She  certainly  wants  a  '  heaven- 
born  Minister.'  You  will  have  felt  very  much  Sir  Henry 
Layard's  death.  How  little  we  thought  his  end  was  so  near 
when  we  met  him  in  Rome  and  found  him  so  bright  and  full 
of  interest  in  everything  that  was  going  on  there.  We  have 
heard  nothing  very  lately  of  dear  Sir  James  Lacaita,  and  we 
are  wanting  to  know  how  he  is  getting  through  the  winter. 
I  have  not  got  Symonds'  Life  yet,  but  I  see  appreciative  re- 
ports of  it,  and  am  hoping  to  have  it  soon.  I  am  writing  on 
Mr.  Gladstone's  birthday;  we  have  excellent  reports  of  him. 
He  is  fully  at  work  with  his  books  again.  Our  kindest  re- 
membrances to  Mr.  Ross.  I  hope  the  orchids  are  flourishing. 
The  only  thing  towards  a  garden  that  we  have  here  is  a  little 
glass,  and  we  get  as  far  as  eucharis  lilies,  but  not  to  orchids. 

Yours  sincerely, 

E.    C.    WiCKHAM." 

Alas  !  the  news  I  gave  Dr.  Wickham  in  my  answer  was  very 
sad.  I  had  seen  Sir  James  in  Florence  in  the  late  autumn  ; 
he  looked  ill  and  feeble,  but  talked  hopefully  of  regaining 
health  to  a  certain  degree  in  the  fine  mild  air  of  Posilippo, 
near  Naples,  where  he  was  going  to  spend  the  winter.  I  had 
said  good-bye  to  him  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  on  January  4 
he  died.  The  loss  to  me  and  to  many,  many  friends  cannot 
be  described.  Kind  and  helpful  to  all,  he  was  universally 
beloved.  No  one  ever  appealed  to  him  in  vain,  indeed  som.e- 
times  he  was  prodigal  of  help  to  people  who  hardly  deserved 
it.  As  a  companion  he  was  delightful,  full  of  knowledge 
of  books  and  men,  with  a  strong  sense  of  humour  and  fun, 
as  those  who  heard  him  tell  Neapolitan  stories  will  remember. 
To  the  last  his  memory  was  extraordinary  ;  Horace  and  Virgil, 
Dante  and  Petrarch  were  at  his  finger  ends.  With  all  this 
he  was  the  most  modest  and  retiring  of  men  ;  few  save  bis 


340  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

intimate  friends  knew  what  a  part  he  had  played  in  poHtics 
and  in  the  making  of  United  Italy.  As  I  write  the  memory  of 
his  genial  greeting  and  bright  smile  of  welcome  comes  before 
me,  and  I  feel  the  loss  of  that  kind  old  friend  as  though  he  had 
died  yesterday. 

Henry  Reeve,  who  was  the  same  age  as  Sir  James,  wrote 
to  me  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  his  death  : — 


Henry  Reeve  to  Janet  Ross. 

Foxholes,  January  8,  1895. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

Another  old  friend  gone.  You  have  had  your  share 
of  these  terrible  losses  in  Symonds,  Layard,  Newton,  and  now 
Lacaita — all  in  a  few  months.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  outlived 
everybody  I  cared  for.  The  last  time  I  saw  Lacaita  at  the 
Athenaeum  we  were  comparing  ages — which  are  about  the 
same — both  of  181 3.  However,  I  am  fairly  well,  he  was 
a  shadow.  Henry  Ponsonby  is  also  a  great  loss,  especially 
to  the  Queen.    He  cannot  be  replaced. 

I  am  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Ross  for  his  Italian  papers, 
but  I  cannot  fathom  the  depths  of  Italian  politics.  The 
politicians  all  seem  to  be  liars  and  rascals,  and  they  have  got 
the  worst  Government  in  the  world — only  to  be  surpassed 
by  an  Australian  Colony.  Nay,  our  own  Ministry  is  not  much 
better. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Henry  Reeve," 

I  had  written  to  St.  Hilaire,  as  I  heard  he  was  ill,  to  ask 
how  he  was  and  again  to  beg  him  to  write  a  short  account  of 
his  own  life,  to  show  young  men  what  determination,  honesty, 
and  application  might  lead  to.  Often  I  had  told  him  what  an 
admirable  lesson  it  would  be.  I  reminded  him  that  all  his 
contemporaries  were  dead,  and  that  their  descendants,  who 
only  knew  him  as  an  old  man,  would  be  deeply  interested 
to  know  about  his  early  life  ;  how  as  a  poor  boy  he  had  worked 


REMINISCENCES  341 

hard  to  educate  himself  and  to  help  the  old  aunt  who  brought 
him  up.    He  answered  : — 


M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Boulevard  Flandrin  4,  Fevrier  10,  1895. 

"  Chere  Janet,  chere  petite-niece, 

Je  vous  remercie  de  votre  sympathie  pour  ma  sante. 
Je  ne  puis  pas  dire  que  le  froid  ait  augmente  mes  maux.  Non, 
mon  mal  incurable,  c'est  I'age  ;  et  j'ai  beau  le  combattre,  je 
ne  reussis  pas  a  le  vaincre.    C'est  un  ennemi  invincible. 

Je  ne  pourrais  repondre  que  de  vive  voix  a  votre  desir  de 
connaitre  ma  jeunesse.  Je  n'aurai  ni  le  temps  ni  I'intention 
de  rien  ecrire  sur  moi.  Toute  la  le^on  a  tirer  de  ma  vie, 
c'est  qu'en  travaillant  sans  cesse  avec  energie  et  devouement, 
on  est  sur  de  reussir  ;  et  si  I'on  ne  reussit  pas,  on  a  en  soi  de 
quoi  se  consoler. 

J'ai  regrette  profondement  la  resolution  de  M.  Casimir 
Perier  ;  elle  a  surpris  tout  le  monde,  et  moi  tout  le  premier. 
Cette  mobilite  dans  la  premiere  fonction  de  I'Etat  est  bien 
facheuse.  Elle  le  serait  partout ;  mais  elle  est  chez  nous  plus 
qu'ailleurs.  Depuis  1789  nous  avons  change  quinze  fois  au 
moins  de  gouvernement. 

Je  felicite  Miss  Lina  de  son  progres  et  de  ses  lectures  seri- 
euses.  Je  n'approuve  pas  celle  d'Herbert  Spencer.  Elle  ne 
pent  qu'egarer  de  jeunes  esprits.  Platon,  Descartes,  Bossuet, 
Leibnitz,  voila  surtout  ce  qu'il  faut  etudier  dans  la  jeunesse. 
Rien  de  notre  temps  n'en  approche,  et  Herbert  Spencer 
moins  que  personne.  II  fait  beaucoup  de  bruit  de  son  vivant ; 
mais  il  ne  restera  rien  de  lui.    Bien  des  amities  a  la  famille. 

Votre  devoue  grand-oncle, 

By.  St.  Hilaire." 

Early  in  February  Professor  Fiske  brought  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dudley  Warner,  who  were  staying  with  him  at  Villa  Landor, 
to  see  us,  and  we  at  once,  to  use  a  familiar  phrase,  cottoned 


342  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

to  each  other.  Dudley  Warner  was  not  only  a  delightful 
talker  and  a  highly  educated  man,  but  handsome,  with  winning 
manners  and  a  sweet  voice.  His  wife  was  charming  and  an 
admirable  musician.  Charles  Fletcher,  the  violinist,  who 
was  with  us  for  a  week  or  two,  said  he  knew  very  few  pro- 
fessionals who  accompanied  so  well.  We  had  very  bad  weather, 
it  even  snowed,  and  Dudley  Warner  caught  a  bad  cold  and 
was  in  bed  for  some  days.  I  wrote  him  a  rhyming  letter 
foretelling  a  fine  spring  wdth  roses,  irises  and  violets,  and  he 
answered  : — 

Charles  Dudley  Warner  to  Janet  Ross. 

Villa  Landor,  San  Domenico,  Florence, 

February  26,  1895. 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

At  the  time  it  came  I  could  not  even  read  it,  nor  for 
days  after.  You  see  the  doctor  would  allow  me  nothing  solid, 
or  agreeable  to  the  taste,  and  Spring  Poetry  was  forbidden 
altogether.  I  am  now  only  just  allowed  spring  chicken. 
The  night  it  came,  however,  some  of  it  was  read  to  me  and 
it  helped  to  create  that  world  of  beautiful  illusions  in  which 
one  lives  in  Italy,  if  he  lives  at  all.  And  that  night  in  which 
I  wandered  about  in  a  lovely  intellectual  wilderness,  I  wrote 
a  sonnet.  Now  when  I  am  well  and  not  in  bed  I  cannot 
write  a  sonnet  to  save  my  life,  or  yours.  I  did  not  write  it 
all  to  be  sure,  only  about  half  of  it,  and  some  of  the  ends  of 
lines  were  not  arranged,  but  it  was  not  a  pretty  kind  of  sonnet 
about  a  sigh  and  a  perfume  and  all  that,  but  a  real  oriental, 
mysterious,  incomprehensible  sonnet,  the  sort  that  you  cannot 
tell  exactly  what  it  means,  but  that  you  felt  mightily.  Now 
I  am  up  and  expect  to  go  downstairs  some  day,  and  hope  when 
I  do  to  find  that  the  ground  you  have  so  skilfully  prepared 
by  your  muse  will  be  all  ready  for  the  spring  you  prophesy. 
I  do  not  doubt  your  good  intentions  or  your  sincerity,  but  I 
should  be  happier  if  we  had  a  little  less  weather  and  little  less 
of  promising. 


REMINISCENCES  343 

My  book  about  Egypt  is  found,  and  I  would  have  brought 
that  to  you,  or  any  other  you  would  take  the  trouble  to  look 
at,  if  I  could  have  ventured  out.  With  kind  regards  to  all 
at  Villa  Ross, 

Yours  sincerely, 

Charles  Dudley  Warner.'* 

"  Signor  "  wrote  to  thank  me  for  a  letter  of  good  wishes  on 
his  birthday,  unaccompanied,  alas,  by  any  flowers,  as  the 
English  post  no  longer  allowed  them  to  pass.  He  felt  the  loss 
of  so  many  old  friends,  but  with  the  indomitable  spirit  in 
his  frail  body  wrote :  "  The  probabilities  for  me  only  make  me 
more  keen  to  do  some  good  work,  so  give  me  your  best  wishes 
— but  those  I  am  sure  of.  If  I  live  till  next  year  I  shall  be 
seventy-nine,  and  have  worked  sixty-four  years,  literally,  for 
I  began  to  work  seriously  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  ..."  I 
wonder  how  many  young  artists  of  the  present  day  begin  as 
early. 

The  year  1895  I  shall  never  forget.  On  May  19  there  was 
a  severe  earthquake  which  did  great  damage  to  many  houses — 
to  ours  among  the  rest.  Fortunately  it  came  at  nine  in  the 
evening,  before  people  had  gone  to  bed,  or  the  loss  of  life 
would  have  been  great.  As  it  was  only  nine  people  were 
killed.  My  niece  had  been  at  Pistoja  with  Dudley  Warner 
and  was  tired ;  she  was  just  going  to  bed  when  my  husband 
called  her  back  to  ask  some  question.  This  saved  her  life. 
All  at  once  there  was  a  terrific  noise  underground  and  the 
old  villa  rocked  and  swayed  like  a  ship  in  a  heavy  sea.  The 
chandelier  swung  round  and  round  and  I  thought  would 
have  come  unhooked.  The  walls  cracked,  pictures  fell,  and 
china  came  crashing  down.  But  we  only  heard  the  roar  of 
the  earthquake  under  us.  Lina  was  terrified — no  wonder — 
and  clung  to  my  husband,  who  said  to  me,  "  Is  there  an  arch  ? " 
I  knew  what  he  meant,  for  I  had  always  been  told  the  safest 
place  during  an  earthquake  was  under  a  doorway  if  it  had 
an  arch.  Meanwhile  oddly  enough  I  did  exactly  what  I  had 
done  in  Egypt,  and  rushed  to  put  out  the  lamp,  fearing  it 
would  fall  and  set  fire  to  the  villa.     But  seizing  some  matches^ 


344  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

I  struck  a  light  and  we  rushed  to  the  back  door  and  went  out 
with  the  servants,  who  came  tumbHng  down  the  kitchen 
stairs  with  white,  frightened  faces.  The  night  was  dark, 
and  my  husband,  who  was  short-sighted,  stumbled  over 
something  as  he  went  out.  "  Damn  these  people,  they  always 
leave  things  in  the  way,"  he  exclaimed.  By  the  light  of  my 
match  I  saw  that  what  he  had  stumbled  against  was  a  block 
of  masonry,  and  then  we  saw  many  others.  They  were  the 
ruins  of  our  tower,  which  luckily  had  fallen  mostly  outwards. 
Lina  was  shivering  with  cold  and  fear,  and  we  went  to  her 
room  to  get  her  a  shawl.  The  door  would  not  open,  and 
next  morning  we  found  that  the  room  was  full  of  stones, 
bricks,  and  rubbish  from  the  tower,  which  had  come  through 
four  stories,  destroying  pigeon-house,  fruit-room,  the  cook's 
room,  and  then  smashing  through  the  vaulting  of  the  ceiling 
of  her  bedroom.  If  Lina  had  gone  to  bed  when  she  said 
good  night  she  would  have  been  crushed.  Some  of  our  machi- 
colations fell — luckily  outside,  not  on  to  the  roof  of  the  villa — 
and  many  of  the  doorways  were  slit  open  from  the  top  of  the 
door  to  the  ceiling.  Our  peasants'  houses  suffered  severely,  of  one 
of  them  the  north  wall  came  bodily  away  and  tilted  outwards, 
so  that  one  saw  the  landscape  through  the  slit.  I  was  interested 
to  see  how  the  wall  of  the  house  was  drawn  back  into  its 
proper  place,  very  much  as  Baldinucci  describes  Alfonso 
Parigi's  doings  at  Palazzo  Pitti  in  1640,  when  the  fafade  of 
the  oldest  part  was  more  than  eight  inches  out  of  the  per- 
pendicular, leaning  towards  the  Piazza.  Baldinucci  says : 
"  First  he  bored  the  wall  of  the  fagade  in  as  many  places 
as  were  needful  for  placing  certain  large  iron  ties  made  on 
purpose  .  .  .  these  were  secured  with  the  usual  bars  very  big 
and  strong,  which  were  afterwards  hidden  under  the  stone 
facing.  He  passed  the  ties  under  the  floors  and  walls  of  the 
passages  and  rooms,  and  at  the  extremities  of  these  same  ties, 
at  the  back  of  the  building,  he  placed  the  wonderful  instru- 
ments furnished  with  screws  invented  by  himself.  With  these, 
by  means  of  certain  levers,  first  one  and  then  another  was 
tightened  and  pulled  so  that  this  great  force  was  exercised 
little  by  little  and  always  equally.  .  .  .  To  ensure  it  for  ever 


REMINISCENCES  345 

from  any  new  danger  the  ties  were  clenched  also  in  the  court- 
yard." 

Our  clever  little  smith  used  no  instruments,  but  when  the 
holes  had  been  made  through  the  opposite  walls  a  strong  iron 
rod  with  a  loop  at  either  end  was  laid  under  the  floor.  The 
looped  ends  stuck  out  from  the  walls,  one  entirely  through,  into 
which  a  stout  bar  of  iron  about  a  foot  long  was  passed,  while 
the  other  barely  appeared.  Then  the  long  rod  in  the  floor 
was  covered  with  charcoal  and  several  men  blew  with  bellows 
until  it  was  red-hot.  This  caused  it  to  expand  and  lengthen 
enough  to  admit  the  other  iron  bar  being  put  through  the 
loop  which  had  come  out  of  the  wall.  When  this  was  accom- 
plished cold  water  was  thrown  over  the  whole  length  of  the 
rod,  which  in  contracting  pulled  the  wall  back  to  its  proper 
place.  The  operation  was  performed  to  the  three  floors  of 
the  house,  and  but  for  the  iron  bars  across  the  wall  outside 
no  one  would  have  known  that  any  damage  had  been  done. 

Earthquakes  continued  for  some  months,  but  only  small 
ones ;  I  counted  fifty-two.  It  is  terrible  to  feel  the  earth, 
which  one  never  thinks  of  save  as  a  solid  comfortable  mass  to 
build  and  to  walk  upon,  suddenly  sway,  shake,  and  quiver 
under  one's  feet.  For  months,  nay  for  years,  afterwards, 
if  a  door  banged  or  any  bit  of  furniture  cracked  during  the 
night,  I  used  to  wake  up  and  find  myself  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  having  jumped  out  of  bed  while  still  asleep. 

The  expense  of  mending  our  old  villa  and  the  peasants 
houses  was  very  heavy,  and  the  Italian  Government  made 
a  great  parade  of  diminishing  for  some  years  the  taxes  of  those 
who  had  suffered  much  damage.  But  the  diminution  was 
ridiculous — only  a  few  francs.  It  also  had  evidently  suppressed 
news  about  the  earthquake.  I  wrote  at  once  to  several  friends 
in  England  to  say  that  we  were  safe,  but  that  the  villa  had  been 
much  knocked  about,  and  was  half  angry,  half  amused  at 
being  asked  what  on  earth  I  meant.  The  newspapers  hardly 
alluded  to  the  severe  earthquake,  and  people  who  came  the 
following  winter  to  Florence  were  surprised  to  find  how  many 
buildings  were  still  being  repaired.  My  husband  and  I  of 
course  gave  up  any  idea  of  going  away  for  the  summer,  there 


3+6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

was  far  too  much  to  see  to  and  to  superintend,  so  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Warner  kindly  took  my  niece  to  England  with  them. 
Soon  after  their  arrival  he  wrote  to  me  : — 

C.  Dudley  Warner  to  Janet  Ross. 

Limmer's  Hotel,  George  Street,  London, 

"  Dear,  dear  friend.  >».  28,  .895. 

It  was  certainly  very  stupid,  and  I  do  not  like  to  own 
it  was  in  character  to  give  no  address  on  my  card  to  Mrs. 
(or  Lady)  Eden.  But  I  deserve  to  be  shut  out  of  Paradise 
for  my  blunder.  I  fancy  that  as  many  fools  as  wicked  people 
miss  Eden. 

It  is  not  for  want  of  love  and  sympathy  that  I  have  not 
written  to  you  before.  In  fact  I  have  too  much  sympathy. 
You  have  been  very  much  in  my  mind.  Many  times  a  day 
I  think  of  you  there  struggling  with  earthquakes  and  all  sorts 
of  discomfort,  and  it  is  quite  true  (and  you  know  it)  that 
my  heart  is  very  sore  for  you.  I  hate  to  think  of  you  and 
Mr.  Ross  in  the  midst  of  your  ruins  and  keeping  up  your 
spirits  with  the  rising  bills  of  the  masons.  I  wish  the  Lord 
had  given  me  a  lot  of  money.  I  would  rebuild  your  tower 
and  send  you  two  oif  instantly  on  a  holiday.    You  dear  people. 

I  took  your  letter  to  Mr.  Watts,  but  they  were  in  the  country. 
But  I  shall  (having  had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Watts)  see  them  on 
Sunday.  I  am  very  busy,  doing  nothing.  But  I  have  already 
overturned  one  government  and  shall  see  another  set  up. 
The  thing  was  very  sudden,  and  fortunately  I  was  admitted 
to  a  Speaker's  seat  to  see  the  wind-up.  I  had  dined  the  night 
before  the  fatal  Friday  with  Arthur  Balfour  at  the  Littletons', 
and  none  of  them  anticipated  the  blow.  I  have  just  this 
evening  seen  Mr.  Campbell-Bannerman,  and  he  is  delighted 
to  get  out.  And  Mr,  Bryce  seems  very  much  the  same  way. 
But  still  people  like  to  be  shown  not  kicked  out. 

Do  not  forget  that  I  love  you  all  dearly. 

Yours  ever, 

C    Dudley  Warner." 


REMINISCENCES  347 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  to  Dudley  Warner 
I  owe  one  of  the  good  friends  of  my  later  years.  Talking 
one  day  after  the  earthquake  about  two  pictures  I  had  bought 
when  I  first  came  to  Florence,  and  wondering  whether  they 
were  what  I  had  always  supposed  and  therefore  worth  some- 
thing, he  proposed  to  bring  Mr.  Bernard  Berenson  to  see 
them,  whose  opinion  would  of  course  be  conclusive.  One 
result  of  the  visit  was  that  my  beloved  pictures  were  sent  off 
to  dear  "  Signor's  "  studio  in  London  and  very  soon  sold — they 
paid  for  our  iron  ties,  which  cost  several  hundred  pounds. 
The  other  was  gaining  a  friend,  whose  pleasant  and  brilliant 
conversation  is  a  great  resource,  and  whose  kindness  is  never- 
failing.  Like  so  many  others  Berenson  fell  under  the  spell 
of  my  husband's  remarkable  gift  of  relating  his  adventures  in 
Asia  Minor  as  a  young  man.  He  was  a  born  raconteur,  and  his 
memory  was  extraordinary.  He  never  the  least  realized  how 
picturesque  and  graphic  his  descriptions  were  of  pig-sticking 
on  the  mounds  of  Nineveh,  of  life  in  Asia  Minor  and  Turkish 
Arabia,  of  hair's-breadth  escapes  among  the  wild  Koords, 
of  the  Fire-worshippers,  of  Pashas  and  Dereh  Beys,  and  was 
always  reluctant  to  "  bore  people  "  as  he  said. 

In  August  there  was  a  big  eruption  of  Vesuvius  and  people 
predicted  more  earthquakes.  The  prediction  evidently 
was  talked  of  in  France,  as  towards  the  end  of  the  month 
I  received  a  letter  from  St.  Hilaire  in  so  shaky  a  handwriting 
that  I  was  alarmed.  Alas,  it  was  the  last,  and  ends  fitly  with 
a  paean  of  praise  to  the  Greek  philosophers  he  loved  so  well. 


M.  Barthelemy  St.  Hilaire  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  Boulevard  Flandrin  4,  Joiit  27,  1895. 
"  Chere  Janet,  chere  petite-niece, 

Votre  lettre  du  24  m'a  prevenue  de  peu  ;  depuis  plu- 
sieurs  jours  je  voulais  vous  ecrire  pour  savoir  ou  vous  etiez  de 
vos  reparations  a  la  suite  de  ce  terrible  phenomene.  II  faut 
esperer  qu'il  ne  se  renouvellera  pas,  en  depit  du  Vesuve. 


348  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Je  suis  ne  en  effet  le  19  Aout,  1805  ;  me  voici  done  dans 
ma  91  annee.  C'est  un  poids  enorme  a  porter  ;  mais  heureuse- 
ment  pour  vous,  cliere  Janet,  vous  ne  savez  pas  encore  ce  qu'il 
pese.  Je  travaille  toujours,  grace  a  Dieu  ;  et  je  fais  une  seconde 
edition  du  Platon  de  M.  Cousin.  Comme  les  Dialogues  sont 
autant  de  fragments,  j'en  ferai  ce  que  je  pourrai.  Je  donnerai 
le  premier  volume  vers  la  fin  de  I'annee,  et  je  continuerai  tant 
que  je  serai  de  ce  monde.  C'est  un  ravissement  de  vivre  avec 
Socrate  et  son  disciple,  surtout  apres  I'austere  Aristote.  II 
n'y  a  rien  de  plus  grand  dans  le  domaine  de  la  philosophie. 

Je  me  rappelle  au  souvenir  de  Monsieur  Ross,  a  qui  je 
rends  cordialement  tous  ses  voeux  pour  moi.  Nos  pauvres 
affaires  se  trainent  toujours  miserablement. 

Bonne  sante  a  tous. 

Votre  bien  affectionne  grand-oncle, 

B.  St.  Hilaire." 

Only  a  few  days  later  I  saw  his  death  in  a  newspaper.  The 
thought  that  I  should  never  again  see  that  handsome,  rather 
austere  face,  or  hear  the  musical  voice  always  raised  in  praise 
of  work,  truth,  and  honesty,  made  me  very  sad.  For  forty- 
six  years — a  lifetime — I  had  loved  and  revered  the  man  who 
lived  like  a  Spartan  and  was  so  generous  to  his  friends  and  so 
thoughtful  of  his  servants.  He  always  rose  at  half-past  four 
and  lit  his  own  fire  in  order  that  his  bonne  should  not  be  obliged 
to  get  up  so  early.  His  first  letters  to  me — and  I  have  several 
hundred,  contain  reiterated  injunctions  to  play  at  ball,  to  learn 
La  Fontaine's  fables  (which  he  had  given  me)  by  heart,  and 
always  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  had  given  my  cousin  Lady  Markby  one  of  my  water- 
colour  paintings  of  an  orchid  which  Mr.  Nettleship  saw.  He 
told  her  he  had  been  to  Kew  to  look  at  orchids  for  the  back- 
ground of  a  picture,  but  those  he  wanted  were  not  in  flower, 
and  asked  her  to  find  out  whether  I  would  lend  him  some  of 
my  drawings.  I  sent  him  a  number,  and  when  he  returned 
them  he  wrote  : — 


REMINISCENCES  349 

J.  T.  Nettleship  to  Janet  Ross. 

58  Wigmore  Street,  London,  November  8,  1895. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  so  generously  lending 
me  your  beautiful  paintings  of  orchids,  many  of  which  are 
exquisite  work.  They  have  been  of  the  greatest  use  to  me, 
and  I  hope  the  picture  (or  pictures)  which  they  will  enable 
me  to  do  may  be  worthy  of  the  chance  you  have  given  me. 
For  the  picture  I  am  doing  for  next  spring,  the  purple  or  red- 
purple  orchids  will  be  the  most  used.  The  subject  is  two 
jaguars  playing,  one  rich,  golden-tawny  with  pure  white 
under-surfaces  and  marked  with  large  deep  black  rosettes ; 
the  other  black  altogether  with  here  and  there  the  rosettes 
showing  damasked  in  the  lights.  I  have  made  careful  studies 
from  all  your  paintings  of  American  and  several  of  the  Asiatic 
orchids,  .  .  . 

Believe  me,  yours  gratefully, 

J.  T.  Nettleship." 

Later  he  told  me  that  the  picture,  which  to  my  amusement 
he  said  I  had  helped  him  to  paint,  was  in  the  Royal  Academy 
and  much  liked  by  the  painters  whose  opinion  he  valued, 
but  that  he  was  far  from  being  satisfied. 

Just  before  the  earthquake  a  friend  introduced  Graf  Fritz 
von  HochBerg,  son  of  Prince  Pless,  to  us ;  from  our  terrace 
he  saw  Villa  Hall,  and  was  interested  when  I  told  him  it  had 
once  belonged  to  Cenni  di  Giotto,  a  relation  of  the  great 
painter,  then  to  the  Valori,  and  afterwards  to  the  Del  Nero, 
who  enlarged  the  villa  and  laid  out  the  garden.  Graf  von 
HochBerg  fell  in  love  with  it,  declared  he  would  buy  it, 
and  smiled  rather  incredulously  when  I  told  him  the  owner 
not  only  would  not  sell,  but  would  not  allow  anyone  to  see 
it.  The  earthquake  knocked  the  villa  to  pieces  (the  only 
good  thing  it  did),  and  Mrs.  Hall,  to  avoid  the  expense  of 
rebuilding,    sold    the    place    to    HochBerg.      Translating   his 


350  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

name  into  Italian  he  called  it  Montalto,  and  by  the  people 
about  soon  became  known  only  as  the  Conte  di  Montalto.  He 
was  his  own  architect  and  landscape  gardener,  and  my  husband 
often  told  him  it  was  a  pity  he  was  born  with  a  gold  spoon 
in  his  mouth,  he  ought  to  have  been  forced  to  use  his  talents. 

1896  opened  sadly.  In  January  Lord  Leighton  died — 
a  loss  to  the  world,  but  a  far  greater  to  his  friends,  for  never 
was  a  kinder  or  more  generous  man,  or  one  more  gifted. 
His  knowledge  of  languages,  even  of  the  dialects,  was  astonish- 
ing. The  Due  d'Aumale  once  said  to  me,  "  He  not  only 
talks  French  like  a  Frenchman,  but  he  has  the  manners  of  a 
grand  seigneur  de  la  vielle  hole  "  ;  which  was  true.  It  is  not 
often  that  the  gods  give  beauty,  intellect,  and  charm  to  one 
favoured  mortal  with  such  lavish  hands.  I  feared  the  effect 
his  death  might  have  on  "  Signer,"  and  wrote  to  Mary  Watts 
to  ask  about  her  husband.     She  answered  : — 


Mrs.  Watts  to  Janet  Ross. 

Limnerslease,  Guildford,  February  16,  1896. 
"  Dearest  Janet, 

I  am  sorry  I  have  left  your  kind  letter  so  long  un- 
thanked  for.  Leighton's  death  was  a  terrible  shock  to  us ; 
we  would  not  believe  the  reports  that  so  often  called  his 
malady  angina  pectoris,  and  he  continued  to  the  last  to  be- 
lieve and  assure  us  that  there  was  no  organic  mischief.  You 
know  what  a  loss  it  is  to  Signor.  Ever  since  your  grandmother 
[Lady  Duff  Gordon]  introduced  him,  a  delightful  young 
fellow  not  much  more  than  twenty  years  old,  they  have  been 
the  dearest  friends.  I  used  to  think  that  Leighton  had  be- 
come like  a  second  self,  the  half  that  went  into  the  thick  of 
the  battle  of  life,  rejoicing  in  strength,  and  successful  at  every 
point.  Each  new  honour  to  him  rejoiced  Signor  far  more 
than  it  did  Leighton.  The  sorrow  of  it  now  is  that  he  feels 
he  had  just  got  to  a  field  of  far  wider  influence  and  oppor- 
tunit)-.     He  had  longed  for  him  to  get  beyond  the  restraints 


REMINISCENCES  351 

of  the  mere  Academy  work  ;  he  had  done  all  that  was  possible 
there,  and  he  wanted  him  to  be  serving  art  as  it  had  never 
been  served  before  in  the  House  of  Lords.  It  is  very  awful 
to  think  that  probably  the  same  amount  of  gout  or  much 
more,  if  it  had  showed  itself  in  a  joint,  might  have  been  tire- 
some and  no  more,  but  it  must  needs  send  its  fatal  drop  to 
that  artery  near  the  heart.  It  seems  impossible  to  believe 
that  that  embodiment  of  vitality  was  there,  being  carried 
still  and  silent  through  the  mourning  crowd  at  St.  Paul's. 

My  dear  Signor's  grief  was  very  bitter  at  first,  but  now  he 
is  calmer,  and  has  his  work  to  turn  to  and  be  absorbed  in, 
though  I  believe  that  till  now  he  never  painted  a  touch  with- 
out the  thought  that  Leighton's  eye  would  see  it.  About 
the  photograph  I  am  going  to  try  and  get  you  the  only  one 
that  at  all  represented  the  real  man  ;  it  was  done  in  his  studio, 
and  I  will  send  it  as  soon  as  I  have  it. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Mary. 

Signor  sends  many  messages  of  love  and  affection." 

Lord  Dufferin  had  written  to  ask  me  whether  I  had  any 
letters  of  Mrs.  Norton's,  and  I  sent  him  all  I  had.  Early 
in  1896  I  asked  if  he  could,  through  the  Embassy  at  Rome, 
send  me  a  packet  of  my  grandmother  Mrs.  Austin's  letters 
to  St.  Hilaire  and  his  to  her,  which  I  had  claimed  from  his 
executor,  and  at  the  same  time  return  those  of  Mrs.  Norton. 
To  my  dismay  when  the  packet  came  hers  were  not  in  it, 
though  Lord  Dufferin  had  written  to  say  they  had  been  put 
in.  I  wrote  at  once  and  he  answered  that  they  could  not  be 
found  at  Paris.     In  answer  to  my  letter  he  wrote  : — 


The  Marquis  of  Dufferin  to  Janet  Ross. 

Paris,  May  14,  1896. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

It  is  very  dear  of  you  making  so  light  of  the  loss  of 
Mrs.  Norton's  letters.     It  is  quite  evident  that  they  never 


352  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

left  this  Embassy,  and  what  can  have  become  of  them  I  can't 

conceive.     My  private  secretary  handed  the  parcel  of  her 

letters,  which  he  had  in  charge,  and  which  he  duly  put  into 

an  envelope,  as  well  as  St.  Hilaire's  packet,  to  the  Chancery 

servant  to  be  carefully  packed  in  the  usual  way.     After  this 

operation  the  packet  was  brought  to  him  to  be  addressed, 

and  it   never  entered  his  head  that   the  packet  with   Mrs. 

Norton's  letters  had   not   been   put  in  in  accordance  with 

his  instructions.     Unluckily  when  I  examined  the  Chancery 

servant,  who  is  a  most  careful  man,  he  was  compelled  to  admit 

that  he  is  in  the  habit  of  packing  so  many  parcels  every  day 

that  he  has  no  special  recollection  of  this  particular  one.    For 

a  moment  I  thought  it  possible,  as  we  have  a  Mr.  Norton 

amongst   my  secretaries,   that   the   packet  might   have   been 

handed  to  him,  or  rather  sent  after  him,  for  he  was  at  Cannes. 

He  telegraphed  to  the  hotel  at  Cannes,  and  in  reply  he  was 

informed  that  a  letter  had  come  for  him  after  his  departure 

and  was  being  forwarded.     On  hearing  this  I  had  hoped  that 

it  would  turn  out  to  be  the  packet  we  were  looking  for,  but  it 

was  not.    In  the  meantime  I   am  having  my  copies   of  the 

letters  copied  for  you,  and  you  shall  have  them  in  a  week 

or  so.  ,^  .  , 

Yours  very  smcerely, 

DUFFERIN    AND    AvA. 

P.S. — By  the  bye,  I  must  not  forget  to  send  you  the  en- 
closed letter,  which  disposes  once  for  all  of  that  horrid  story 
about  Mrs.  Norton.  Luckily  Reeve  wrote  me  his  important 
letter  just  before  he  died,  and  he  had  just  time  to  stick  a 
note  into  his  review  of  Mr.  Meredith's  works  which  he  hap- 
pened to  have  written  when  I  addressed  him  on  the  subject. 
Meredith  has  promised  to  introduce  an  adequate  refutation 
of  the  story  he  has  so  powerfully  helped  to  promulgate  into 
the  next  edition  of  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  so  that  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  vindicating  '  Aunt  Carrie's '  memory  of 
that  atrocious  accusation."  ^ 

^  The  accusation  was  that  Mrs.  Norton  had  communicated  to  The  Times  (in 
1845)  that  the  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws  was  imminent,  a  secret  Sidney  Herbert, 
who  had  just  joined  the  Cabinet,  was  supposed  to  have  told  her.  The  truth  was 
that  Lord  Aberdeen  himself  gave  the  information  to  Delane,  the  editor. 


REMINISCENCES  353 

The  copies  Lord  Dufferin  sent  me  were  far  from  complete, 
nearly  all  the  letters  to  me  were  wanting,  and  of  course  the 
charming  illustrations  which  were  in  many  of  those  to  my 
parents  were  gone  for  ever. 

My  husband  was  very  ill  with  influenza,  and  just  as  he 
was  getting  better  he  had  a  slight  stroke  which  frightened 
me  horribly,  as  it  affected  his  speech,  and  for  a  day  or  two  his 
power  of  writing,  so  that  he  could  not  make  me  understand 
what  he  wanted.  However,  that  went  off  in  a  few  days, 
and  our  doctor  said  he  would  probably  quite  recover.  He 
was  much  amused  at  a  letter  I  received  from  Mounteney 
Jephson,  who  had  been  appointed  a  Queen's  Messenger  some 
time  before  : — 

A.  J.  Mounteney  Jephson  to  Janet  Ross. 

Shere,  May  30,  1896. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

So  many  times  I  have  begun  a  letter  to  you  and  have 
never  finished  it.  But  now  I  am  with  Somerset  and  have 
been  talking  much  about  you,  it  is  a  good  time  to  send  you 
a  few  lines  of  very  friendly  greeting  while  you  are  in  my 
thoughts.  First  of  all  let  me  say  how  sorry  I  am  to  hear  of 
Mr.  Ross's  illness,  it  must  be  such  a  terrible  anxiety  to  you. 

I  find  my  new  billet  of  Queen's  Messenger  much  to  my 
liking.  It  gives  me  plenty  of  time  to  write  and  does  not  tire 
me  in  the  least,  for  one  travels  so  comfortably.  I  get  so  soon 
bored  with  London,  and  then  one  can  just  put  on  one's 
hat  and  start  for  Petersburg,  Constantinople  or  Berlin.  It 
throws  one  into  contact  with  numbers  of  interesting  people, 
and  I  get,  from  the  people  I  meet,  much  '  copy '  for  future 
articles  and  stories. 

I  have  not  very  long  got  back  from  Constantinople,  which 
interested  me  much ;  it  was  my  first  visit  there.  It  was  just  in 
the  height  of  all  its  beauty,  and  the  hills  on  either  side  of  the 
Bosphorus  were  purple  with  flowering  Judas  trees.  Con- 
stantinople itself  is  disappointing.  I  have  seen  many  Eastern 
towns,  but  never  one  so  dirty  and  squalid.     Its  squalor  is  not 


354  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

even  picturesque.  The  Curries  are  not  a  great  success  there. 
He  loses  his  temper,  and  that  is  a  fatal  thing  to  do  with  Orientals 
unless  you  are  very  strong.  There  is  a  good  story  told  of  Lady 
Currie.  She  had  an  audience  with  the  Sultan,  who  asked  her 
the  usual  question  as  to  how  she  liked  Constantinople.  She 
answered  in  rather  a  *  high-faluting '  way  that  she  did  not 
like  it  much  at  present,  as  she  had  not  yet  arranged  her  'inner 
life.'  You  may  imagine  how  little  the  Sultan  understood 
what  she  meant,  and  he  answered  througn  the  interpreter, 
'Tell  her  Ladyship  to  try  hot  water;  I'm  told  it  is  an  excellent 
thing.' 

At  Sofia  I  was  presented  to  Ferdinand  of  Bulgaria,  who 
had  just  returned  from  his  feet-kissing  tour  through  Europe. 
He  is  not  a  nice-looking  creature.  His  nails  are  long  like 
bird's  claws,  and  his  fingers  are  covered  with  rings,  and  he 
smells  so  of  scent  and  perfume  that  the  very  dogs  sneeze  as 
he  passes. 

Servia  pleased  me  much,  it  was  so  green  and  well  cultivated, 
with  charming  open  glades  among  the  woods.  There  were 
little  shepherd-boys  playing  upon  pipes  as  they  tended  their 
flocks  of  Biblical-looking  sheep,  for  all  the  world  like  a  Wagner 
opera.  There  were  little  girls  too  looking  after  their  geese 
and  knitting,  like  Millet  pictures.  Then  there  were  big  droves 
of  elongated  woolly-backed  pigs  with  long  drooping  ears, 
that  set  one  thinking  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  or  of  running 
violently  down  a  steep  place  and  perishing  in  the  waters.  A 
most  Biblical-looking  country.  From  Vienna  to  Munich 
I  travelled  in  the  next  compartment  to  the  Princess  Ferdinand 
of  Bulgaria  and  her  mother.  They  had  with  them  a  crying 
baby  with  whom  I  sympathized  much,  for  he  was  evidently 
the  little  Boris  weeping  at  being  rechristened  so  often. 

And  now  I  must  end  up  this  unconscionably  long  scrawl. 
I  sat  down  to  bless  you  with  a  few  lines,  and,  like  Balaam,  I 
have  cursed  you  with  a  long  volume. 

I  am  settled  now  in  London  at  22  Ryder  Street,  and  shall 
be  so  glad  to  get  a  line  from  you.  With  kindest  regards  to 
Mr.  Ross,  believe  me,  dear  Mrs.  Ross,  yours  always  sincerely, 

A.  J.  Mpunteney  Jephson.'' 


REMINISCENCES  355 

In  the  summer  we  were  advised  by  our  doctor  to  try  the 
baths  and  waters  of  Chianciano,  between  Asciano  and  Monte- 
pulciano,  which  were  so  strongly  recommended  by  the 
Roman  doctor  Senator  Baccelli.  In  those  days  the  hotel 
was  very  inferior,  but  the  waters  and  baths  certainly  did  Henry 
good,  and  we  both  enjoyed  the  drives  in  so  picturesque  a 
country.  The  little  townlet  of  Chianciano,  about  two  miles 
from  the  baths,  was  a  joy  to  look  at  from  our  windows.  Perched 
on  a  hill,  surrounded  by  massive  grey  walls,  and  with  tall 
canipanili  standing  out  against  the  blue  sky,  it  was  exactly 
like  the  background  of  an  old  Tuscan  picture.  One  day  we 
drove  to  Asciano  across  an  undulating  stretch  of  country 
with  huge  oak  trees  dotted  all  over  the  fields.  I  remarked 
to  our  driver  that  they  were  not  very  good  for  the  wheat, 
which  had  just  been  reaped.  "  Oh  no,  but  they  are  for  the 
animali  neri,  con  rispetto  parlando  (black  animals,  speaking 
with  due  respect),"  was  his  answer.  No  Tuscan  ever  calls 
a  pig  anything  but  "  a  black  animal,"  and  always  adds,  "  speak- 
ing with  due  respect,"  as  he  does  when  mentioning  anything 
dirty.  We  saw  several  droves  of  the  long-snouted,  long-legged, 
thin  beasts,  more  like  greyhounds  than  pigs,  along  the  edge  of 
a  wood  routing  about  for  cyclamen,  which  in  Italian  are 
called  pan  porcini,  or  pig's  bread.  As  Montepulciano  was  not 
very  far  off  we  determined  to  drive  there,  and  our  host  said 
he  would  take  us  himself,  as  he  could  not  trust  his  man  in  the 
narrow,  steep  streets  of  the  hill-city.  We  started  directly 
after  lunch,  and  after  breasting  a  hill  looked  down  on  a  valley 
enveloped  in  mist.  We  soon  discovered  that  the  mist  was 
sulphurous  vapour  which  puffed  up  from  tiny  hillocks ;  my 
silver  knife-chain  became  slightly  discoloured  while  going  across. 
We  drove  up  through  a  wood  and  on  emerging  saw  the  walls 
and  towers  of  Montepulciano  before  us.  Through  an  old 
gateway  we  entered  the  main  street,  narrow,  steep,  and  slippery, 
with  solid  brown  palaces  on  either  side,  and  then  twisting  and 
turning  round  very  sharp  corners  our  gallant  little  horses  took 
us  at  a  gallop  up  to  the  Piazza,  the  very  summit  of  the  high  hill. 
I  had  heard  that  the  view  was  very  fine,  but  it  was  far  beyond 
what  I  expected.    Away  below  to  the  right  the  lakes  of  Thrasy 


3S6  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

mene  and  Chiusi  glittered  in  the  sun,  and  the  Chiana  in  the 
plain  beneath  us  wound  in  and  out  like  a  white  ribbon  in  the 
lush  green  land.  To  the  front,  to  the  right,  and  to  the  left, 
were  hills  crowned  with  grey  townlets  clustering  round  tall 
bell-towers,  and  beyond  range  after  range  of  mountains  faded 
away  into  the  horizon.  Dark  Perugia,  and  Cortona,  spreading 
up  her  hill,  we  easily  distinguished.  Our  coachman,  though 
pleased  at  our  admiration  of  the  view,  thought  we  paid  too 
little  attention  to  Montepulciano  itself.  "  You  know  it  was 
the  villeggiatura  of  the  great  King  Porsena  ;  and  the  Romans 
loved  the  city  because  of  its  excellent  wine,  which  Redi  says 
is  the  best  in  the  world. ^  Our  Duomo  too  is  famous."  So 
leaving  Henry  in  the  carriage  I  went  into  the  cathedral, 
which  had  evidently  been  spoiled  at  some  bad  period  of  art 
by  "  restoration,"  and  at  the  same  time  the  magnificent  monu- 
ment to  Bartolomeo  Aragazzi  by  Donatello  and  Michelozzo 
was  torn  to  pieces  and  scattered  about  in  the  church.  The 
t^gy  of  Aragazzi  is  superb,  with  noble  draperies,  but  all 
scratched  and  cut  about  by  the  irrepressible  small  boys,  who 
swarm  in  Montepulciano.  Let  into  pillars  opposite  are  two 
bas-reliefs,  one  the  Virgin  enthroned,  the  other  men  and 
youths,  probably  members  of  Aragazzi's  family,  which  are 
adorable.  Three  more  bits  of  the  tomb  have  been  built  into 
the  high  altar.  Poor  Aragazzi,  he  little  imagined  how  his 
fellow-townsmen  would  mutilate  the  monument  on  which 
he  spent  so  many  thousands  of  scudi. 

As  we  returned  down  the  main  street  our  coachman  pointed 
out  a  tablet  in  the  wall  of  a  palace.  "  There  is  another  glory  of 
Montepulciano,"  he  said;  "there  Poliziano  was  born;  he  was 
a  great  man." 

^   "  Hear,  all  ye  drinkers, 

Give  ear  and  give  faith  to  the  edict  divine  ; 
Montepulciano's  the  King  of  all  wine." 

Bacco  in  Toscana,  by  F.  Redi,  translated  by  Leigh  Hunt, 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THOUGH  Chianciano  certainly  did  Henry  good,  he 
never  really  recovered  his  health,  and  was  more  or 
less  of  an  invalid  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  A  friend 
gave  us  such  a  glowing  account  of  Valdieri,  high 
up  in  the  Alps,  and  of  the  excellent  hot  baths,  that  we 
determined  to  spend  the  summer  there,  and  at  all  events 
be  cool.  We  slept  at  Savona  and  went  to  Cuneo  by  the 
strategic  railway.  The  scenery  was  very  fine,  but  crossing 
deep  ravines  on  what  looked  like  a  slight  cobweb  structure  of 
wood  was  rather  alarming.  From  Cuneo,  a  clean,  attractive 
town,  we  started  early  in  the  morning  for  a  drive  of  about 
nineteen  miles ;  for  the  first  five  we  trotted  gaily  along  a 
good  road  through  a  well-cultivated  country  with  many 
apple  orchards,  but  at  San  Dalmasio  the  ascent  began,  and 
our  horses  dropped  into  a  walk.  The  baths  of  Valdieri  were  at 
4600  feet  above  the  sea,  and  the  road  generally  followed  the 
tearing  little  river  Gesso — a  good  name,  for  its  waters  were 
whitish,  like  all  streams  that  come  from  the  eternal  snows  and 
from  glaciers.  At  one  place,  Andonno,  the  road  had  been 
excavated  out  of  the  rock  which  hung  right  above  us.  The 
little  village  of  Sant'  Anna  di  Valdieri,  where  the  present 
King  of  Italy  has  a  hunting-box,  was  a  green  and  smiling  place  ; 
we  stopped  there  to  bait  the  horses  and  have  lunch.  After- 
wards the  scenery  became  stern  and  majestic,  and  the  road 
zigzagged  up  between  high  mountains  on  either  side,  while 
in  front  we  sometimes  saw  the  snow-fields  of  Cima  dei  Gelas 
over  10,000  feet  high,  and  of  Cima  Brecon  nearly  the  same 
height.  A  shrill  whistle  made  me  turn  round,  and  Henry 
laughed  as  he  said  "  a  marmot."    My  recollection  of  marmots 

357 


358  rmi  FOUiTrH  generation 

went  back  to  my  early  days,  when  small  Savoyard  boys  in 
pointed  hats  trimmed  with  many-coloured  ribbons,  short 
corduroy  brown  jackets,  knickerbockers  and  sandals,  carried 
them  about  in  London,  begging  for  pennies  with  such  appealing 
eyes  and  a  broad  grin  which  displayed  their  brilliant  white 
teeth.  But  I  had  no  idea  that  a  marmot  could  whistle  like 
a  small  steam-engine. 

At  last  we  crossed  the  Gesso  and  arrived  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  a  huge  building  three  stories  high  with  a  covered  portico 
in  front,  where  the  road  came  to  an  end.  To  the  right  and 
left  rose  steep  hills,  and  in  front  the  valley  appeared  to  be 
closed  but  a  short  way  off  by  a  chain  of  tall  mountains.  Just 
below  the  road  in  front  of  the  hotel  the  Gesso  roared  and 
foamed  as  it  tore  down  from  snow-capped  Monte  San  Giovanni, 
so  I  was  thankful  that  our  rooms  were  behind,  as  sleep  would 
have  been  almost  impossible  with  the  rushing  water  almost 
under  our  windows.  Splendid  beech  trees  grew  close  to  the 
hotel,  higher  up  were  larches  and  firs,  and  higher  still  barren 
grey  rocks.  It  was  an  unceasing  amusement  to  watch  the 
squirrels  playing  about,  and  to  hear  and  see  various  kinds  of 
little  birds.  As  Valdieri  was  in  the  royal  preserves  shooting  was 
forbidden,  and  it  was  a  delight  to  see  the  birds  flying  about  and 
to  know  there  were  no  cacciatori  round  the  corner  to  shoot  at 
them,  perfectly  regardless  as  to  whether  they  shot  you  at  the 
same  time. 

Our  dear  old  friend  Dr.  Wright  joined  us  at  Valdieri, 
and  the  remarkably  civil  landlord  gave  us  a  table  to  ourselves 
at  one  end  of  the  large  dining-room,  as  the  table  d'hote 
with  three  hundred  people  lasted  too  long  for  my  husband. 
The  view  from  the  portico  which  ran  along  the  whole  length 
of  the  front  of  the  hotel  was  very  curious.  Cascades  of  per- 
fectly limpid  but  scalding  hot  water  came  down  the  side  of 
the  mountain  opposite  into  the  stream  below,  from  whence, 
when  it  rained  and  at  night,  rose  clouds  of  white  vapour. 
Where  the  water  slid  over  the  rocks  or  over  boards  placed 
on  purpose  there  were  lumps  of  nasty  green,  reddish-brown 
stuff  like  thick  jelly.  It  looked  more  like  bits  of  rotten  liver 
than  anything  else.    Dr.  Wright  was  very  irate  at  my  flippant 


REMINISCENCES  359 

description  of  so  rare  a  plant,  and  forthwith  wrote  down  for 
my  edification  :  "  The  muffe  plays  an  important  part  in  the 
treatment  at  the  Terme.  In  the  streams  pouring  from  several 
of  the  hot  sulphurous  springs  on  the  slopes  of  Monte  Matto 
and  flowing  into  the  Gesso,  various  Alg:e  grow — conspicuous 
among  them  being  one  called  Leptothrix  Falderia,  the  elongated 
confervid  cells  of  which  are  enclosed  in  a  slimy  mucus.  With 
it  are  entangled  other  closely  allied  forms,  the  whole  forming 
masses  of  varying  size  which  harbour  many  minute  forms 
of  animal  life.  The  growth  of  this  alga  is  promoted  by  letting 
the  hot  water  flow  gently  over  pieces  of  wood  placed  on  the 
descent,  to  which  the  alga  clings,  and  its  masses  present  various 
hues  from  bluish  green  to  an  ochreous  red.  The  dead  forms 
soon  bleach  to  a  dirty  white.  It  is  a  rare  instance  of  the 
cultivation  of  a  fresh-water  alga.  It  grows  in  water  the 
temperature  of  which  in  the  open  air  sometimes  reaches  131 
Fahrenheit,  flourishes  in  one  of  122,  and  seems  to  die  out  at 
one  of  yj"  Into  a  mass  of  these  muffe  my  husband  had  to 
put  his  poor  crippled  hands  every  morning  for  half  an  hour 
before  taking  his  bath. 

The  air  at  Valdieri  was  so  fine  and  exhilarating  that  we 
asked  Carlo  Orsi,  who  had  not  been  well,  to  come  and  stay  with 
us.  One  day  he  and  I  hired  donkeys  and  rode  up  to  Vallasco, 
King  Victor  Emmanuel's  hunting-lodge  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
Alps.  In  about  two  hours  we  came  to  a  vast  green  meadow 
surrounded  by  high  mountains  whose  peaks  were  still  here 
and  there  covered  with  snow.  At  the  extreme  end  a  fine 
waterfall  came,  our  guide  told  us,  from  the  lakes  of  Val  Oscura. 
Twisting  about  in  the  grassy  plain,  which  was  bright  with 
flowers,  was  a  brilliantly  clear  streamlet  well  stocked  with 
trout.  Near  the  King's  little  palace,  with  two  machicolated 
towers,  were  barracks  for  a  regiment  of  Alpini.  Some  of 
the  soldiers  were  just  starting  for  an  excursion,  and  they 
showed  us  how  quickly  their  mountain-guns  took  to  pieces 
and  were  loaded  on  the  magnificent  mules.  One  mule  carried 
the  two  wheels,  another  the  gun-carriage,  a  third  the  gun. 
I  should  have  been  sorry  to  go  on  my  hands  and  knees  up  the 
places    over    which    these    big,  rather    heavy-looking    animals 


36o  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

climbed  like  chamois.  The  men  were  evidently  proud  of 
their  mules  and  told  me  they  seldom  had  an  accident.  They 
were  taking  small  tents  with  them  in  which  two  short  men 
could  just  lie  packed  like  sardines.  Orsi  was  so  tired  after  our 
expedition  that  I  was  alarmed,  and  clever  Doctor  Sansoni 
confirmed  my  fears  that  his  lungs  were  affected.  In  August 
he  found  it  too  cold  and  returned  to  Florence,  but  we  stayed 
on  till  the  20th,  when  snow  fell  on  the  mountains  above, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  keep  warm. 

While  we  were  at  Valdieri  I  received  from  M.  Lechelier, 
who  succeeded  St.  Hilaire  at  the  Institut,  the  Eloge  he  had 
pronounced  on  his  predecessor.  He  had  quoted  from  my 
article  in  the  Cosmopolis.  In  return  I  sent  him  my  book 
which  contained  many  letters  of  my  old  friend  to  Mrs.  Austin. 
He  answered  : — 

M   J.  Lechelier  to  Janet  Ross. 

i6  Rue  Stanislas,  Paris,  Novembre  2,  1897. 
"  Madame, 

Je  vous  dois  maintenant  des  remerciements,  non 
seulement  pour  vos  Three  Generations,  mais  encore  pour  tout 
le  plaisir  et  tout  le  profit  que  j'ai  trouves  a  les  lire.  Vous 
n'aviez  peut-etre  songe  qu'a  me  fournir  de  nouveau  ren- 
seignements  sur  mon  venerable  predecesseur  a  I'Institut,  j'ai 
lu,  en  effet,  avec  interet,  ses  lettres  a  Madame  Austin  et 
celles  qu'il  a  regues  d'elle.  Mais  je  vous  assure  que  bien 
d'autres  choses  encore  m'ont  interesse  dans  votre  volume. 
La  correspondance  de  Madame  Austin  avec  tant  d'hommes 
distingues,  soit  de  votre  pays,  soit  du  mien,  et  en  particulier 
avec  M.  Guizot,  que  je  mets  maintenant  en  dessus  de  tous 
nos  autres  hommes  publics  a  cause  de  I'estime  qu'il  a  su  lui 
inspirer.  Ses  relations  (et  aussi  les  votres)  avec  notre  famille 
royale  pendant  son  exil  en  Angleterre,  enfin  ses  jugements 
sur  les  affaires  publiques  et  I'evolution  tres  sensible  de  ses 
opinions,  qui  touchaient  d'abord  d'assez  pres  a  celles  de 
Bentham  et  des  Mill,  et  que  notre  infortunee  revolution  de 
1848  n'a  pas  peu  contribue,  ce  me  semble,  a  rendre  conserva- 


REMINISCENCES  361 

trices.  Mais  il  y  a  quelque  chose,  je  vous  I'avoue,  qui  m'a 
interesse  encore  plus  que  tout  cela,  c'est  le  caractere  meme 
des  personnes  dont  vous  descendez  et  que  vous  avez  voulu 
faire  connaitre  au  public.  C'est  cette  vie  de  I'intelligence 
si  active,  si  variee,  si  riche,  qui  a  soutenu  Madame  Austin  a 
travers  les  epreuves  d'une  existence  difficile,  et  Lady  Duff 
Gordon,  dans  sa  longue  lutte  contre  la  maladie.  C'est  cette 
richesse  encore  plus  grande  de  la  vie  du  coeur,  qui  a  fait 
adorer  I'une  des  pauvres  pecheurs  de  Boulogne,  et  I'autre 
des  pauvres  Arabes  du  Caire  et  de  Thebes.  J'ai  pense  quelque 
fois  en  vous  lisant,  qu'il  y  aurait  peut-etre  lieu  un  jour  (mais 
un  jour,  je  I'espere,  encore  eloigne)  de  grossir  le  volume  d'une 
quatrieme  partie  et  de  I'intituler  Four  Generations.  Mais 
j'ignore  s'il  y  a  dans  le  cinquieme  generation,  ou  dans  les 
suivantes,  quelqu'un  qui  soit  en  etat  de  tenir  dignement  la 
plume.  Veuillez  agreer,  Madame,  avec  mes  remerciments 
I'assurance  de  mes  sentiments  les  plus  respectueusements 
devoues, 

J.  Lechelier." 

During  the  winter  I  read  General  Delia  Rocca's  auto- 
biography, which  was  very  interesting  but  far  too  long — 
like  so  many  modern  Italian  books.  I  suggested  an  "  edited  " 
translation  of  it  to  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin,  but  when  I  wrote  to 
Countess  Delia  Rocca  she  objected  to  the  two  volumes  being 
cut  down  to  one.  However,  at  last  she  consented,  and  when 
the  translation  came  out  the  following  year  was  not  dissatisfied 
with  what  I  had  done.  Early  in  1898  my  cousins  the  Markbys 
started  on  a  journey  round  the  world  ;  from  Japan  he  wrote 
me  a  graphic  description  of  all  they  had  seen  : — 


Sir  William  Markby  to  Janet  Ross. 

Kyoto,  Japan,  May  22,  1898. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

Here  we  are  in  Japan — in  the  old  capital,  and  I  only 
wish  you  were  with  us — for  I  am  writing  in  a  balcony  with 


362  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

a  most  lovely  view.  Immediately  around  us  on  the  slopes  of 
the  hills  on  which  our  house  is  situated  there  are  beautiful 
woods,  mostly  deciduous  trees  with  their  fresh  new  foliage, 
maples,  cherries,  camphors  (especially  the  latter),  with  here 
and  there  wild  azaleas  in  full  bloom,  and  with  a  few  huge 
firs  like  glorified  Scotch  firs.  Below  is  the  city  of  Kyoto 
stretching  wide  over  the  plain — and  a  line  of  blue  hills 
beyond.  It  is  really  as  fine  a  view  as  one  could  see 
anywhere. 

We  are  not  in  the  least  disappointed  with  Japan.  We 
have  been  about  five  weeks  in  the  country,  and  have  had  a 
real  good  time,  as  the  Americans  say.  We  have  been  mostly 
at  Tokyo,  the  present  capital.  It  is  not  particularly  interesting 
as  a  city,  but  I  always  like  to  begin  by  a  visit  to  the  capital, 
and  in  this  case  it  turned  out  very  well,  for  to  our  great  sur- 
prise we  were  warmly  received  not  only  by  the  English  but 
by  the  Japanese.  I  had  known  some  in  England  as  students, 
and  it  so  happened  that  a  law  book  of  mine  has  been  much 
used  here  and  even  translated  into  Japanese,  and  the  little 
Japs  could  not  do  enough  for  us.  This  enabled  us  to  see  them 
in  their  own  homes,  which  is  very  interesting  and  not  always 
very  easy  to  do.  I  wish  you  could  see  a  Japanese  house  of  the 
better  kind.  We  were  shown  over  one  by  Count  Matsura. 
Nothing  but  wood  unpainted  and  unvarnished,  and  mats — 
no  furniture  !  In  each  room  as  many  silk  cushions  are  brought 
in  as  there  are  guests  and  you  sit  on  the  floor.  If  it  is  cold  there 
would  be  a  beautiful  brazier  containing  charcoal  (the  one  we 
saw  at  Count  Matsura's  was  three  hundred  years  old  and  came 
from  Korea).  In  a  recess  is  hung  a  picture,  one  work  of  art 
is  placed  there,  and  these  are  frequently  changed.  The  rooms 
are  divided  by  screens  sliding  over  each  other  in  grooves. 
The  outside  walls  are  formed  by  similar  screens.  There  is 
no  glass,  but  the  oiled  paper  of  the  screens  admits  light. 
The  charm  of  the  house  consists  to  a  great  degree  in  the 
exquisite  delicacy  and  finish  of  every  detail,  and  penetrate 
where  you  will  there  is  not  a  dirty  or  untidy  corner  to  be 
found.  And  to  a  great  extent  (except  as  to  the  value  of  the 
art  treasures)  the  houses  of  greater  and  smaller  people  are  the 


REMINISCENCES  363 

same.  Even  in  the  old  palace  of  the  Mikado  (which  we  visited 
yesterday)  there  is  nothing  more,  and  in  a  good  Japanese 
tradesman's  house  there  would  be  nothing  less — but  always 
the  same  daintiness  and  finish — and  always  in  every  room  in 
use  in  every  house  a  picture,  and  at  least  a  flower  vase  with  a 
flower.  This  love  of  some  simple  decoration  is  universal. 
Only  yesterday  I  saw  a  man  sitting  at  work  in  a  factory  with 
a  flower  placed  by  his  side  in  a  pot,  just  for  himself  to  look  at 
whilst  he  was  at  work. 

I  have  told  you  nothing  about  our  journey  out.  We  en- 
joyed it  immensely.  We  landed  at  Singapore,  which  was 
very  hot,  but  the  Mitchells  put  us  up  at  Government  House, 
and  anything  more  beautiful  than  the  vegetation  it  is  im- 
possible to  conceive.  It  is  far  finer  than  that  of  the  West 
Indies.  The  Amherstias  were  in  full  bloom,  so  also  was  the 
Antigonum  (?),  (I  think  that  is  right),  a  lovely  pink  creeper 
from  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  scores  of  others.  We  also 
landed  at  Hongkong,  but  we  saw  nothing  of  it  as  we  found  we 
had  three  days,  and  that  a  boat  was  going  to  Canton,  which 
we  were  most  anxious  to  see.  We  had  been  warned  against  it 
as  risky  in  various  ways,  but  I  had  good  ground  for  a  strong 
suspicion  that  there  was  no  real  risk,  nor  was  there,  and  I 
would  not  have  missed  it  for  anything.  We  had  a  delightful 
journey  there  and  back  in  a  very  good  steamer,  on  board 
of  which  we  lived  all  the  time,  and  Canton  is  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  most  curious  cities  in  the  world.  It  is  indescribable. 
Every  house  in  the  city  is  exactly  alike — good  substantial 
houses  of  black  brick ;  the  front  of  the  house  consists  of  one 
room  only  which  is  the  shop  and  is  entirely  open  to  the  street, 
and  in  which  the  wares  are  displayed  to  great  advantage. 
No  street  is  more  than  eight  feet  wide  and  some  scarcely  that. 
There  are  no  wheel  carriages  and  no  pack  animals.  You  must 
either  walk  or  be  carried  in  a  chair,  and  everything  which  has 
to  be  moved  is  carried  by  human  beings.  This  is  the  Canton 
land,  but  nearly  half  of  the  million  inhabitants  live  in  boats 
on  the  water.  The  space  covered  by  the  city,  including  the 
river  quarter,  is  extremely  small,  and  consequently  one  gets 
the  impression  of  a  mass  of  human  beings  in  motion  very 


364  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

similar  to  that  of  looking  at  an  ants'  nest  when  you  stir  it  up 
with  a  stick.  Canton  is  a  very  rich  city,  and  enjoys  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  far  from  Pekin,  and  so  is  comparatively 
let  alone. 

Here  in  Kyoto  we  are  surrounded  by  temples,  some  Shinto, 
some  Buddhist,  and  some  a  compound  of  the  two.  As  I  sit 
I  can  hear  the  old  priest  of  one  beating  his  wooden  drum  to 
call  the  Deity's  attention  to  the  fact  that  there  are  some 
worshippers  whose  wants  must  be  looked  after.  It  is  a  very 
common  notion  that  the  Deity  requires  to  be  thus  constantly 
reminded  of  his  duty.  There  is  generally  a  bell  for  the  purpose 
which  the  worshipper  himself  can  ring.  There  is  not  the  least 
outward  indication  at  present  of  religion  being  dead  in  Japan. 
On  the  contrary  there  is  something  of  a  religious  revival, 
but  it  is  not  unlikely  that  education  may  kill  it,  and  I  fancy 
that  religions  die  somewhat  suddenly. 

The  temples  are  entirely  built  of  wood,  massive  pieces  of 
timber  put  together  without  a  nail  or  fastening  of  any  kind, 
but  kept  together  by  the  enormously  heavy  tiled  roof.  They 
have  no  architectural  beauty,  but  the  curved  lines  of  the  roof 
are  graceful,  and  their  massiveness  makes  them  somewhat 
impressive.  They  are  most  of  them  crammed  with  objects 
of  art ;  these  are  so  crowded  together  that  they  destroy  one 
another.  This  is  very  curious,  as  it  is  precisely  the  reverse 
of  the  Japanese  habit  in  their  own  houses.  Of  course  to  the 
connoisseur  they  are  extremely  interesting,  and  I  do  not  mean 
that  anyone  would  fail  to  find  much  to  admire  in  them — 
but  I  get  a  little  overdone  by  them,  for  the  number  is  enormous. 
The  excess  of  ornamentation  is  Buddhistic,  i.e.  Chinese  in 
origin,  for  a  true  Shinto  temple  is  absolutely  simple,  but 
there  are  very  few  such  now  in  Japan.  I  have  only  seen 
one. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  to  find  how  completely  the 
Japanese  had  got  hold  of  some  of  our  European  methods, 
and  how  successfully  they  were  working  theln.  They  seem 
determined  to  do  everything  themselves.  The  foreigners 
in  Japanese  service  are  very  angry  at  this  and  predict  failure. 
This  is  natural  enough,  because  they  lose  their  comfortable 


REMINISCENCES  365 

berths,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  this  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence is  exactly  the  quality  which  raises  the  Japanese 
above  all  other  Orientals.  And  they  have  also  the  very  un- 
oriental  quality  of  dogged  perseverance. 

We  at  first  intended  to  leave  Japan  for  Vancouver  on  June 
17,  we  have  already  postponed  our  departure  to  July  8,  and 
we  are  now  hesitating  whether  we  shall  not  postpone  it  till 
July  29.  If  the  weather  gets  hot  we  can  go  to  the  hills — but 
the  weather  in  Japan  is  a  very  uncertain  factor  in  one's  cal- 
culations. Until  within  the  last  week  or  two  we  have  been 
wearing  our  mid-winter  clothing  and  delighting  in  a  fire. 
For  a  few  days  we  had  it  very  hot,  but  to-day  it  is  again  rather 
cold. 

This  is  a  most  incoherent  letter.  I  feel  quite  ashamed 
of  it,  perhaps  it  will  amuse  you.  I  hope  all  is  well  at  Poggio 
Gherardo.  I  wish  you  would  send  me  a  line,  to  Balliol 
College,  from  whence  it  will  be  forwarded.  Our  love  to  your 
husband. 

Yours  affectionately, 

W.  Markby." 

While  Mrs.  Symonds  and  Madge  were  with  us  for  a  few 
days  in  the  spring  Madge  got  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dent  pro- 
posing that  she  should  start  a  new  series  of  books  about  medieval 
towns  by  writing  the  Story  of  Perugia.  She  asked  my  niece 
Lina  to  help  her  with  the  historical  part,  so  the  two  girls, 
with  Mrs.  Symonds,  spent  several  weeks  at  Perugia  and  wrote 
an  admirable  little  book. 

In  July  we  went  again  to  Valdieri,  where  I  finished  the 
translation  of  the  General's  book.  My  husband  was  wonder- 
fully better,  able  to  walk  more  than  the  year  before,  and  even 
to  botanize  a  little  with  Dr.  Wright,  who  came  to  be  with  us 
for  a  month.  But  we  were  all  made  very  sad  by  the  death  of 
poor  Carlo  Orsi.  I  had  been  to  see  him  at  Signa,  where  he  was 
living  with  his  sisters,  before  going  to  Valdieri,  and  could 
hardly  keep  back  my  tears  as  I  felt  there  was  no  hope.    Every- 


366  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

one  loved  gentle,  kindly  Carlo,  the  talented  artist  and  charming 
singer  ;  to  us  he  was  like  a  son. 

In  the  beginning  of  September  we  returned  home,  and  for 
the  first  time  had  a  good  vintage,  as  a  vineyard  which  I  had 
planted  was  beginning  to  bear  well,  and  I  felt  quite  proud 
when  I  told  Henry  that  it  had  given  us  twenty  hectolitres  of 
wine.  Altogether  Poggio  Gherardo  had  got  into  much  better 
order,  and  at  last  the  cacciatori,  or  sportsmen,  after  we  had 
caught  one  or  two  (when  they  were  fined  and  lost  their  guns) 
were  beginning  to  understand  that  we  objected  to  our  fences 
being  broken  down,  our  land  trampled  over,  and  our  olive 
trees  peppered  with  shot.  To  see  a  so-called  sportsman  stalking 
a  tomtit  or  a  robin  would  be  very  funny,  if  it  did  not  make 
one  so  angry.  Occasionally  a  hen  or  a  pigeon  belonging  to 
the  peasants  proves  too  great  an  attraction  to  be  resisted, 
and  then  there  is  sometimes  a  chase,  very  seldom  followed  by 
a  capture.  As  the  sportsmen  are  often  bad  characters  the 
pacific  peasants  prefer  to  put  up  with  the  loss  of  a  fowl  to 
making  an  enemy  who  might  use  his  knife.  I  ran  after  a  man 
in  our  wood  one  day,  and  as  he  stumbled  over  a  root  and  fell 
I  caught  him,  and  conducted  him  in  triumph  to  the  Municipal 
Offices  of  Fiesole,  which  were  then  in  our  grounds  in  a  villa 
belonging  to  us.  It  was  very  amusing  to  be  complimented  by 
the  secretary  upon  my  "  great  courage." 

In  October  I  got  the  following  letter  from  Sir  William 
Markby ;  at  last  they  were  coming  home  after  their  long 
journey  : — 

Sir  William  Markby  to  Janet  Ross. 

Hotel  Albemarle,  New  York,  September  24,  1898. 
"  Dear  Janet, 

As  you  see,  we  are  now  near  the  end  of  our  journey. 
It  was  very  good  of  you  to  write  to  me,  for  I  am  afraid  you 
have  been  working  very  hard  and  must  be  sick  of  pen,  ink, 
and  paper.  We  are  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  so  good  an  account 
of  your  husband.  I  hope  that  is  also  a  relief  to  you  from  the 
heavy  anxiety  and  watching. 


REMINISCENCES  367 

We  were  very  sorry  indeed  to  hear  of  the  death  of  your 
dear  friend — and  I  may  say  our  dear  friend,  Carlo  Orsi, 
for  though  he  was  not  to  us  what  he  was  to  you,  we  liked 
him  greatly,  and  I  think  he  liked  us.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
lovable  of  men. 

We  have  certainly  had  a  very  good  time.  We  landed  at 
Vancouver  on  July  19.  There  we  met  the  Aberdeens,  who 
carried  us  off  to  their  ranch  in  British  Columbia.  We  then 
wandered  for  a  time  in  the  mining  districts,  which  are  very 
beautiful,  very  interesting,  and  to  our  great  surprise,  quite 
decently  civilized.  In  the  Canadian  territories  there  is  none 
of  the  rowdiness  which  one  finds  in  most  of  the  mining  centres 
of  the  United  States.  We  then  visited  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
which  are  grand  beyond  description.  After  that  we  spent 
some  very  pleasant  days  on  the  prairies  seeing  some  of  the  large 
horse  and  cattle  breeding  establishments,  and  so  down  to 
Toronto,  Montreal,  and  Quebec,  taking  what  is  called  the 
*  Lake  Route.'  From  Quebec  we  came  into  the  United  States, 
spending  our  time  at  Bar  Harbour  (where  we  had  several 
American  friends),  on  the  coast  of  Maine,  Boston,  and  here. 
The  hospitality  we  have  met  with  has  been  boundless.  At 
Bar  Harbour  we  were  not  able  to  accept  half  the  invitations 
we  received,  and  we  have  met  a  great  number  of  most  agree- 
able and  interesting  people.  Americans  do  certainly  under- 
stand how  to  make  life  pleasant.  There  is  very  little  country 
life.  They  spend  most  of  their  winter  in  the  cities  and  summer 
at  the  seaside — not  so  much  in  lodgings  or  hotels  as  we  do, 
but  in  houses  of  their  own,  so  that  in  each  place  they  have 
a  society  also  of  their  own.  The  men,  no  doubt,  work  hard, 
but  Lucy  thinks  the  women  have  a  very  good  time,  and  that 
their  main  duty  is  to  dress  well  and  make  themselves  agreeable. 
They  certainly  succeed  in  doing  both.  I  am  surprised  at  the 
great  number  of  well-appointed,  handsome  houses  we  have 
seen,  but  I  fancy  very  few  people  care  to  leave  any  money 
behind  them,  and  think  their  children  may  shift  for  them- 
selves. 

I  have  hardly  met  a  single  person  who  derives  any  satis- 
faction from  the  \var.     There  is  much  difference  of  opinion 


368  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

as  to  what  should  be  done  now  it  is  over,  but  I  think  nearly 
everyone  would  be  glad  i£  it  had  not  taken  place.  But  why 
did  not  they  think  earlier  of  the  responsibility  which  a  successful 
war  would  entail  upon  them  ?  It  is  not  because  they  were 
not  warned.  Godkin,  who  with  W.  Lloyd  Garrison  edits  the 
Nation  and  the  Evening  Post,  warned  them  distinctly  enough. 
So,  I  believe,  did  Bryce,  whose  words  generally  carry  great 
weight  here.  But  it  is  too  late  now.  We  know  well  enough 
that  when  the  game  of  expansion  has  once  begun  you  cannot 
stop.  Chamberlain  is  over  here  and  of  course  proclaiming 
loudly  the  blessings  of  Imperialism,  but  I  don't  think  he  pro- 
duces much  effect.  I  feel  sure  that  the  nation  would  gladly 
retreat  from  its  present  position,  but  it  cannot. 

We  sail  on  Wednesday  next,  the  i8th,  in  the  Teutonic^ 
and  we  ought  to  get  to  Liverpool  within  the  week.  We  shall 
be  glad  to  be  at  home  again,  but  we  do  not  regret  our  some- 
what venturesome  undertaking.  Mentally  it  has  given  us 
a  great  fillip,  and  we  have  both  been  wonderfully  well  all  the 
time,  I  am  thankful  to  say. 

I  must  now  go  to  bed,  for  we  have  had  a  long  day's  outing, 
to  pay  a  visit  to  some  friends  about  fifty  miles  up  the  Hudson 
river,  which  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  rivers  I  have  ever 
seen.  Our  friends  have  a  house  just  opposite  West  Point, 
which  we  were  much  interested  in  visiting.  Good-bye,  dear 
Janet, 

Your  affectionate 

W.  Markby. 

We  found  at  Boston  that  everyone  had  read  the  Three 
Generations  and  was  delighted  with  it.  The  name  of  '  Austin  ' 
is  greatly  venerated  there.  If  you  were  to  go  there  you  would 
see  what  American  hospitality  is  like  with  a  vengeance." 

In  the  spring  of  1899  Mr.  Dent  paid  us  a  short  visit,  and 
Lina  undertook  to  write  the  Story  of  Assisi  and  also  a  small 
book  of  recipes  for  cooking  vegetables.  So  many  friends 
had  asked  me,  or  rather  our  old  cook,  to  tell  them  how  to  cook 


REMINISCENCES  369 

vegetables  that  I  was  tired  of  turning  grammes  and  litres 
into  ounces  and  quarts,  and  of  putting  Giuseppe's  rather 
discursive  Italian  into  decent  English.  My  niece  very  soon 
got  tired  of  such  dull  work,  so  I  took  it  up  and  was  rather 
amused,  and  I  confess  puzzled,  when  I  sent  the  last  pages  to 
London,  by  Mr.  Dent  asking  me  to  write  a  "  literary  intro- 
duction "  to  Leaves  from  our  Tuscan  Kitchen. 

In  July,  as  we  heard  the  hotel  at  Valdieri  was  not  to  be 
opened,  we  went  to  a  place  in  Switzerland  just  across  the 
Italian  frontier  called  Le  Prese.  It  was  rather  pretty  with  the 
lake  of  Poschiavo  close  by,  and  as  our  friends  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Strachey  and  their  son  Sir  Arthur  and  his  wife  were  there,  we 
had  pleasant  company.  But  the  hotel,  on  the  high  road  to  the 
Engadine,  was  noisy,  and  Swiss  people,  to  me,  were  singularly 
unattractive. 

As  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Watts  was  almost  a  vegetarian  I  dedi- 
cated the  little  cookery  book  to  her,  and  she  wrote  :  "  We  shall 
hail  the  book  ;  my  cook  and  I  are  struggling  just  now  to  be 
good  and  take  pains.  A  friend  of  mine  says  it  is  so  stupid 
not  to  be  greedy."  The  amusing  part  of  it  all  was  that  I 
know  nothing  about  cookery,  never  having  even  boiled  an 
egg  in  my  life  ;  but  I  do  know  if  a  dish  is  good  or  bad.  Every 
recipe  given  by  friends  was  tried  by  us,  and  our  old  cook,  who 
was  a  cordon  bleu,  suggested  alterations  or  additions  until  it 
was  declared  worthy  of  inclusion  in  the  book.  His  portrait,  by 
our  dear  friend  Hallam  Murray,  forms  the  appropriate  frontis- 
piece. 

In  the  winter  Henry  had  another  stroke,  was  speechless 
for  thirty-four  hours,  and  also  lost  the  power  of  writing. 
In  vain  he  tried  to  tell  me  something,  putting  his  hand  to 
his  mouth  as  though  he  wanted  to  eat  or  drink.  I  offered  him 
everything  I  could  think  of — a  shake  of  the  head  was  the  only 
answer.  At  last  he  smiled  sadly  and  made  a  sign  that  he  gave 
up  trying  to  explain.  As  soon  as  he  recovered  his  speech  he 
told  me  he  had  been  afraid  that  in  my  fright  about  him  I  had 
perhaps  forgotten  to  feed  a  poor  nightjar  that  had  been  shot 
through  the  wing  and  fallen  in  our  vineyard.  It  was  brought 
in,  and  my  husband,  who  loved  all  animals,  made  me  feed  it 

215 


370  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

with  raw  meat.  I  had  not  forgotten  it,  and  never  imagined 
that  Henry  would  have  thought  of  the  bird  and  that 
he  was  referring  to  it  when  he  raised  his  hand  to  his 
mouth. 

In  January,  1900,  the  Markbys  came  and  passed  two  months 
with  us,  a  great  resource  to  Henry  and  to  me.  My  husband 
was  so  much  better  that  we  were  able  to  go  to  Varese  in  the 
summer,  a  delightful  place,  and  the  Hotel  Excelsior,  an  old 
villa  standing  in  a  large  park,  was  excellent.  The  public 
garden  in  the  little  town  was  the  prettiest  and  quaintest  place 
I  ever  saw,  with  walks  shaded  by  trees  trained  like  pergole, 
and  from  the  top  one  saw  the  snowy  range  of  Monte  Rosa. 
One  day  my  niece  and  I  drove  to  Castiglione  d'  Olona  to  see 
Masolino's  wonderful  frescoes  which  Berenson  had  told  me 
not  to  miss.  The  country  round  Varese  was  very  green  after 
burnt-up  Tuscany ;  trees  grew  luxuriant  and  little  rills 
watered  the  big  meadows.  We  had  to  climb  a  stiff  hill  up  to 
the  little  church  standing  on  one  side  of  a  gorge  which  was 
dominated  on  the  other  by  the  fine  old  castle  of  Castiglione. 
Ruined  as  they  are  the  frescoes  were  even  more  beautiful 
than  I  expected,  and  we  lamented  not  having  time  to  cross 
the  gorge  and  see  those  in  the  castle.  But  I  did  not  like  to 
leave  Henry  for  too  long. 

I  have  said  in  an  earlier  chapter  what  a  wonderful  raconteur 
my  husband  was.  Often  friends  had  deplored  that  all  those 
tales  of  his  early  life  in  Turkey  and  Asia  Minor  and  his  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  Eastern  manners  and  customs  should  die 
with  him.  So  we  entered  into  a  conspiracy.  One  or  the  other 
would  drop  in  and  lead  him  on  to  talk,  while  I  sat  behind  his 
chair  and  wrote  down  what  he  said.  But  I  could  not  keep  pace 
with  him  and  one  day  begged  him  to  dictate  to  me  a  story  I 
particularly  liked — the  one  he  had  told  me  at  Aldermaston 
when  first  we  met.  He  said  he  could  not  do  it,  and  quite 
derided  the  notion  that  people  could  be  interested  in  his 
adventures.  "  Well,  give  me  at  least  some  dates,"  I  said. 
He  promised  to  look  for  his  accounts  with  the  British  Govern- 
ment during  and  after  the  Crimean  War,  which  had  been 
sent  here  when  his  stepmother  died  and  put  away  unopened. 


REMINISCENCES  371 

Next  day  he  gave  me  a  bundle  of  yellow  letters,  some  of  them 
with  great  slits  in  them,  showing  that  they  came  from  places 
where  plague  was  rife.  "  There,  I've  found  among  the  accounts 
letters  I  wrote  to  my  poor  sister  when  I  went  to  Turkey  as 
a  lad  sixty  years  ago.  They  cover  twenty  years  of  my  life. 
Read  them — if  you  can,  and  then  burn  them.  I  don't  think 
you  will  have  the  patience  to  look  at  many."  I  began,  and 
was  so  interested  and  amused  that  I  determined  to  type  them 
at  night  when  Henry  had  gone  to  bed,  as  no  one  else  could 
have  deciphered  the  very  faded  writing  on  such  thin  paper. 
There  were  all  the  tales  we  delighted  in,  told  in  the  same 
vivid  picturesque  words,  and  many  others  he  had  evidently 
forgotten.  Henry  laughed  at  my  enthusiasm,  but  deprecated 
my  sitting  up  at  night  over  such  rubbish.  Mr.  Dent  came  to 
us  for  a  few  days,  and  I  gave  him  some  of  the  letters  to  read, 
with  the  result  that  he  offered  to  publish  them.  Henry 
declared  they  were  not  worth  printing,  but  I  could  see  he  was 
pleased.  As  the  classical  names  of  towns  and  rivers  had  to  be 
given  as  well  as  the  Turkish,  I  often  had  to  turn  to  him  for 
help,  and  the  work  served  to  while  away  many  an  hour  that 
would  have  been  dreary  for  my  dear  invalid.  I  worked  very 
hard,  as  besides  copying  his  letters  I  was  writing  a  book  on 
Florentine  Villas,  which  was  published  in  1891  in  a  very  fine 
edition  by  Mr.  Dent,  with  reproductions  of  Zocchi's  old 
prints,  and  drawings  of  the  villas  as  they  now  are  by  my  friend 
Miss  Erichsen.  I  had  tried  in  vain  to  buy  a  copy  of  Zocchi ; 
fortunately  my  dear  old  cousin  Lady  Crawford  had  one  and 
lent  it  to  Mr.  Dent. 

In  the  spring  Miss  Venetia  Cooper  came  to  help  me,  as 
my  niece  had  gone  to  England.  She  was  in  great  sorrow  her- 
self, as  her  father  and  mother  had  died  within  a  few  days  of 
one  another.  It  was  perhaps  good  for  her  to  be  obliged  to 
occupy  herself  with  her  uncle  Henry,  as  she  always  called 
him,  though  we  were  not  related.  Her  mother  had  been  a 
good  friend  to  me  for  many  a  long  year,  and  I  looked  upon 
Venetia  almost  as  a  daughter.  After  she  left,  our  friend 
Signora  Turri,  who  my  husband  used  to  say  was  like  a  sunbeam 
coming  into  the  room,  often  drove  over  from  Villa  Salviati 


372  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

to  see  him  until  the  heat  drove  her  away  from  Florence. 
On  July  19  my  husband  died,  and  the  loss  of  the  dear  friend 
and  companion  of  forty-two  years  left  me  more  utterly  lonely 
than  I  can  say.  I  broke  down,  and  to  add  to  my  cares  my 
faithful  maid  developed  typhoid  fever  and  nearly  died. 
When  she  was  out  of  danger  I  went  to  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
and  was  fortunate  in  finding  a  clever  and  most  kind  young 
doctor  who  nursed  me  as  though  I  had  been  his  mother. 
For  seven  weeks  I  was  more  or  less  in  bed,  and  Dr.  Giglioli 
told  me  afterwards  that  he  had  been  very  anxious  about  me 
for  some  time.  I  shall  never  forget  the  kindness  of  Senator 
Pasquali  Villari,  who  in  spite  of  age  and  more  to  do  than  most 
people,  made  time  to  come  from  Florence  and  see  me  when 
I  returned  to  Poggio  Gherardo.  "  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend 
indeed,"  truly  says  the  old  proverb.  The  success  of  the  new 
edition  of  my  mother's  Letters  from  Egypt  was  a  great  pleasure. 
The  first  editions  had  been  so  severely  edited,  for  reasons 
already  given,  that  much  of  their  charm  had  disappeared. 
Some  time  before  I  had  copied  her  real  letters,  only  cutting 
out  family  matters,  but  my  husband's  illness  prevented  my 
finishing  the  work.  My  Poet  wrote  a  preface,  such  as  only  he 
could  write,  a  tribute  to  his  friend  who  he  declared  "  was  of 
the  order  of  women  of  whom  a  man  of  many  years  may  say 
that  their  like  is  to  be  met  but  once  or  twice  in  a 
lifetime." 

Our  dear  neighbour  Fritz  von  HochBerg  had  been  ill 
all  the  summer  at  Breslau,  and  when  he  returned  to  Montalto 
in  late  autumn  I  did  not  think  he  would  live  through  the 
winter.  There  had  been  a  strong  affection  between  my 
husband  and  the  young  Graf,  who  now  transferred  some  of 
the  love  he  had  borne  Henry  to  me.  I  often  went  to  sit  by 
his  sofa,  and  on  Christmas  Eve  he  insisted  that  I  should  dine 
with  him  and  see  the  Christmas  tree.  A  touching  sight  it  was. 
Fritz  lying  pale  and  thin  on  his  sofa  giving  the  presents  which 
his  old  nurse  brought  to  him  from  the  tree  to  the  servants 
and  the  labourers.  No  one  had  been  forgotten.  Cloth  for  a 
coat,  a  warm  waistcoat,  woollen  socks,  or  a  dress  or  cloak  for 
the  wife,  rejoiced  the  heart  of  the  Italian  labourers,  who  had 


REMINISCENCES  373 

never  heard  of,  much  less  seen  a  Christmas  tree  in  their 
lives.  Tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  some  of  the  men  as  they  went 
to  receive  their  presents.  In  January  my  cousins  the  Markbys 
came  to  cheer  my  solitude.  They  were  here  when  Dr.  Mar- 
morek  came  from  Paris  in  March  to  see  Fritz,  and  were  as 
much  struck  as  I  was  by  the  strong  and  engaging  per- 
sonality of  the  doctor.  When  the  Graf  left  in  an  invalid 
carriage  for  Paris  no  one  expected  to  see  him  again.  But 
Dr.  Marmorek  was  a  magician.  In  September  Fritz  was  so 
well  that  he  went  to  Pless  and  accompanied  his  father  out 
shooting. 

In  November,  1903,  I  was  sitting  rather  disconsolate, 
thinking  how  I  should  get  through  three  months  of  solitude 
until  the  Markbys  came  towards  the  end  of  January,  when 
the  door  of  my  sitting-room  flew  open  and  Fritz  appeared. 
I  did  not  know  he  was  back  and  before  I  could  say  a  word 
he  exclaimed  :  "  I've  sold  Montalto,  and  you  are  to  come  with 
me  to  Egypt.  You  know  we  often  planned  to  go  there  to- 
gether. You  must  meet  me  at  the  station  on  Tuesday  at 
midday ;  your  berth  is  taken."  It  was  Friday ;  I  had  no 
proper  clothes  for  a  journey,  and  I  stammered,  "  But."  "  Oh, 
there's  no  but  in  the  matter.  You  must  come.  Good-bye. 
I'm  very  busy."  We  left  Genoa  in  a  splendid  ship,  a  German 
Lloyd  steamer  with  an  impossible  Japanese  name,  and  the 
difference  in  the  comfort  of  travelling  in  1903  as  compared 
to  the  sixties  was  extraordinary.  The  only  drawback  was  the 
superabundance  of  music.  A  bugle  awoke  us  early  ;  then  the 
men  sang  a  hymn  ;  a  band  played  about  eleven,  and  during 
lunch  and  dinner,  so  that  conversation  was  impossible.  The 
sight  of  the  statue  of  my  old  friend  de  Lesseps  at  the  entrance 
of  the  harbour  of  Port  Said  made  me  feel  rather  sad,  a  feeling 
which  increased  when  we  landed  and  I  found  an  evil-smelling, 
large,  dirty  town,  instead  of  the  pretty  little  place  I  remembered 
so  well. 

Cairo  was  so  altered  that  I  recognized  nothing.  The  Ez- 
bekieh  had  been  half  built  over,  huge  hotels  had  sprung  up, 
trams  bustled  along,  and  no  donkeys  were  to  be  seen  for 
hive.     I  missed  "  Come  'long,  Ma'am,  Gladstone,  very  good 


374  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

donkey,"  or,  "  Here,  lady,  this  Bismarck,  good  donkey." 
I  was  informed  I  could  not  possibly  ride  a  donkey  into  the 
bazaars — it  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  Besides,  there  were 
none  to  ride.  We  were  at  the  Continental  Hotel,  a  huge 
place  where  we  were  numbers,  not  human  beings.  The 
people  I  had  known  were  dead  or  had  left  Egypt.  In  vain  I 
tried  to  find  Hassan  the  son  of  Ali,  my  old  donkey-boy,  and 
in  reply  to  enquiries  at  Alexandria  I  heard  that  my  mother's 
faithful  servant  Omar  had  died  some  months  ago.  The  only 
places  at  all  like  the  Cairo  of  my  youth  were  the  carpet  and 
the  tent  bazaars.  There  was,  however,  one  change  so  much 
for  the  better  that  it  almost  made  up  for  the  Europeanizing 
and  spoiling  of  Masr-el-Kebeer.  Ophthalmia  had  nearly 
disappeared.  Formerly  every  third  or  fourth  man  one  met 
in  the  street  had  bad  eyes  or  was  blind,  and  the  blear-eyed 
children  were  horrible  to  look  at.  Also  the  people  looked 
more  prosperous  and  were  better  clothed.  Lord  Cromer 
did  me  the  honour  to  call  and  asked  whether  I  found  Egypt 
much  changed.  When  I  told  him  that  the  great  diminution 
of  ophthalmia  had  struck  me  extremely  I  could  see  he  was 
pleased.  What  amused  me  was  that  in  the  hotel  I  became  a 
person  instead  of  a  number  after  Lord  Cromer  had  been  to 
see  me,  and  no  longer  waited  an  hour  before  I  could  have  a 
bath  in  the  morning. 

It  seemed  so  odd  to  take  tickets  for  Assouan — to  get  into 
a  sleeping -compartment  at  Cairo  in  the  evening  and  find 
oneself  at  Luxor  next  morning.  During  the  short  time 
spent  in  waiting  for  the  train  to  Assouan  I  went  out  of  the 
station  and  asked,  with  some  diflftculty,  as,  alas,  I  had  almost 
entirely  forgotten  my  Arabic,  whether  Sheykh  Yussuf,  my 
mother's  friend  and  teacher,  was  still  alive.  None  of  the  men 
knew  his  name,  and  Luxor  was  so  altered  that  I  no  longer 
recognized  the  place.  The  Maison  de  France,  my  mother's 
old  house  built  on  the  top  of  the  great  temple,  had,  I  knew, 
been  swept  away  in  1884,  when  the  temple  was  dug  out  by 
M.  Maspero.  It  also  seemed  to  me  that  the  bed  of  the  Nile 
had  rather  changed  and  was  farther  away  from  the  village. 
I  felt  a  stranger  in  the  land,  and  with  somewhat  depressed 


REMINISCENCES  375 

Spirits  got  into  the  train  for  Assouan.  That  journey  was 
hotter  and  dustier  than  I  could  have  imagined  anything, 
even  in  Egypt,  could  possibly  have  been,  so  the  pull  across  the 
river  from  Assouan  to  the  island  of  Elephanta  was  delightfully 
refreshing.  Fritz  had  taken  rooms  at  the  Savoy  Hotel,  and 
when  looking  out  of  my  window  on  to  the  pretty  garden, 
the  waving  palm  trees,  and  the  great  river,  my  spirits  rose, 
and  I  felt  happier  than  I  had  been  for  many  months.  We  were 
early  travellers.  The  brown  earth  was  being  sown  and  watered 
several  times  a  day,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the  whole 
place  was  green  and  the  grass  ready  to  mow.  The  river  was 
sinking  fast,  and  every  morning  the  Arab  women  from  the 
village  behind  the  hotel  dibbled  seeds  into  the  strip  of  mud 
off  which  the  water  had  retreated  during  the  night.  Every 
evening  we  watched  the  wonderful  afterglow — no  words 
can  describe  it — as  though  all  the  jewels  of  the  world  had 
been  showered  over  an  opal  sky.  I  was  struck  by  the  absence 
of  water-fowl.  When  in  1867  I  was  at  Assouan,  pelicans, 
wild  geese  and  ducks,  and  all  kinds  of  plover  and  small  birds 
abounded.  Save  hoopoes  and  grey  kingfishers  birds  were 
as  scarce  as  in  Italy ;  and  I  was  told  that  the  Italians,  who 
had  been  employed  in  thousands  to  build  the  great  dam  below 
Philae,  had  shot  them  all. 

The  head  of  the  works  at  the  dam,  a  pleasant  Scotchman, 
sent  his  steam-launch  one  morning  and  we  went  up  the  river. 
Disembarking  at  the  dam  we  walked  some  way  along  it, 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  jealous  the  old  Pharaohs 
would  have  been  of  that  mighty  work.  The  great  river 
was  bridled,  stopped  in  its  rushing,  tearing  course,  and  in- 
stead of  dangerous  foaming  cataracts  there  was  a  large  placid 
lake  up  which  we  rowed  to  Philae.  I  confess  that  in  spite 
of  my  admiration  for  the  colossal  barrage,  and  the  knowledge 
that  it  had  brought  food  and  prosperity  to  thousands  of 
fellaheen,  and  would  prevent  seasons  of  scarcity  or  of 
devastating  floods  such  as  I  had  seen  in  bygone  years,  the  first 
sight  of  Philae  was  really  painful.  The  waving  palm  trees 
were  all  dead  and  stood  out  yellow-brown  against  the  blue 
sky  ;  the  sunt  bushes  were  dead,  a  tangle  of  withered  branches 


376  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

wrapped  in  withered  weeds  left  by  the  receding  waters  of 
last  year  ;  the  beautiful  temples  no  longer  stood  high  on  a 
green  island,  the  water  nearly  touched  their  steps,  and  in  a  few 
weeks  would  rise  and  rise  and  cover  them  nearly  to  the  roofs. 
I  sought  out  the  Osiris  chamber  where  my  mother  slept  when 
she  went  up  to  Phil^  in  May,  1864,  or  rather  tried  to  sleep, 
but  was  driven  out  by  the  heat,  and  passed  the  night  on  the 
parapet  of  the  temple.  The  foundation  of  all  the  buildings 
had  been  carefully  strengthened  with  cement  and  all  that  was 
possible  had  been  done  to  save  them  from  destruction — but 
Philas,  beautiful,  wonderful  Philse,  was  no  more.  For  a 
few  minutes  hatred  of  the  utilitarian  science  which  had  de- 
stroyed such  loveliness  possessed  us. 

We  were  to  have  gone  to  Khartoum,  but  one  morning 
early  Fritz  sent  for  me,  quietly  said  he  felt  very  ill  and  was 
sure  he  had  appendicitis.  We  sent  at  once  for  Dr.  Schacht, 
a  Dane  who  was  at  the  Cataract  Hotel  but  came  over  to  dine 
occasionally  at  the  Savoy.  My  anxiety  can  be  imagined 
when  he  confirmed  the  Graf's  diagnosis  of  the  malady.  The 
people  in  the  hotel  drove  me  nearly  wild  by  advising  me  to 
telegraph  at  once  to  his  father  Prince  Pless,  and  telling  me 
that  I  should  incur  grave  responsibility  if  anything  happened 
to  Fritz  and  I  had  not  let  his  family  know.  Reflecting  that 
Silesia  was  not  exactly  next  door  to  Egypt,  that  the  Prince 
was  no  longer  young,  and  that  he  could  not  possibly  reach 
Assouan  in  time  if  the  illness  took  a  bad  turn,  I  determined 
not  to  telegraph  but  to  write  every  day,  in  the  hope  of  catching 
different  steamers  from  either  Port  Said  or  Alexandria.  After- 
wards the  Princess  thanked  me  for  not  alarming  her  husband, 
and  fortunately  my  letter  announcing  that  Fritz  was  out  of 
danger  reached  Pless  the  day  after  one  which  contained  bad 
news.  For  some  days  Fraiilein  Hentschel,  Fritz's  old  nurse, 
who  had  fortunately  come  with  us,  and  I,  were  terribly  anxious, 
but  Dr.  Schacht,  and  our  dear  invalid's  imperturbable  good 
temper  and  patience  pulled  him  through. 

In  January  I  left  Assouan  on  my  return  to  Florence  to 
meet  the  Markbys,  and  stopped  two  days  at  Luxor  to  see 
the  place  once  more.    As  I  entered  the  hotel  an  old  German 


LAIJV    DL'FF   GORDON. 
By  Henry  \V.  Phillips. 


REMINISCENCES  377 

gentleman  came  up  and  asked  me  whether  I  was  the  daughter 
of  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  and  then  introduced  himself  as  Dr. 
Scheinfurth.  The  great  traveller  was  a  delightful  man ; 
we  made  friends  at  once,  and  he  took  me  to  see  Todoros, 
the  German  Consul,  whom  I  remembered  as  a  slip  of  a  boy 
to  whom  my  mother  gave  English  and  German  lessons,  and 
whose  father  had  given  me  the  alabaster  k'Chl  jar  in  1867. 
I  asked  him  whether  he  recollected  the  Sittee  Noor-ala-Noor. 
*'  Who  could  forget  her  ?  "  he  answered,  and  then  poured 
forth  a  torrent  of  praise  and  admiration.  "And  I  remember 
her  daughter  Sittee  Ross  who  rode  better  than  any  hedaween^'' 
etc.  etc.  I  interrupted  him  and  said,  "  But,  Todoros,  /  am 
Sittee  Ross."  He  looked  incredulously  at  me,  and  then  his 
face  grew  very  long  as  he  slowly  exclaimed  :  "  What,  so  old  ?  " 
I  could  not  help  laughing,  particularly  at  Dr.  Schweinfurth's 
look  of  dismay,  and  told  Todoros  that  he  was  no  longer  the 
young  boy  I  had  seen  so  many  years  ago.  I  asked  after  Sheykh 
Yussuf — he  was  dead  and  his  family  had  gone  elsewhere. 
Indeed  all  the  people  I  had  seen  at  Luxor  were  gone  save 
my  mother's  old  howab,  who  was  still  the  guardian  of  the  great 
temple  on  the  top  of  which  she  then  lived.  How  well  I  re- 
membered trying  to  look  down  between  the  cracks  of  the 
huge  slabs  which  formed  the  pavement  of  her  rooms,  and 
really  was  the  roof  of  the  temple.  The  old  howah  summoned 
all  his  family  to  see  the  daughter  of  the  Sitt-el-Kehir,  and 
soon  there  was  quite  a  crowd  round  us,  all  talking  at  once 
at  the  top  of  their  voices  and  kissing  my  hands. 

By  great  good  luck  Princess  Henry  of  Battenberg  arrived, 
and  in  her  honour  the  temple  of  Karnak  was  illuminated  that 
night.  The  illumination  was  of  the  simplest,  and  extra- ^ 
ordinarily  effective.  As  the  Princess  advanced  one  large  stack 
of  long  canes  after  another  was  set  on  fire.  The  effect  of  the 
flames  shooting  high  into  the  air,  throwing  a  brilliant  light 
on  those  magnificent  ruins  and  then  dying  down,  when  the 
columns  looked  bigger  and  more  imposing  than  ever,  was 
one  of  the  most  striking  and  beautiful  spectacles  I  ever  saw. 
Next  day  I  left  for  Cairo,  where  I  found  a  telegram  from  Saoud, 
in  answer  to  a  letter  I  wrote  from  Assouan  to  ask  whether  he 


378  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

still  remembered  me,  and  to  tell  him  I  should  pass  by  Tel-el- 
Kebir  on  my  way  to  embark  at  Port  Said.  The  translation 
made  for  me  by  one  of  the  telegraph  clerks  is  as  follows  : — 

*'  Illustrious  Dant  Ross.  I  have  had  the  honour  and  the 
pleasure  to  receive  your  letter,  and  I  thank  you.  Your  firm 
friendship  has  made  me  very  joyful.  I  also  keep  the  old 
love  and  thus  shall  rejoice  to  see  you,  as  I  feel  the  love.  I 
hope  before  you  leave  Cairo  you  will  write  me  a  letter,  and  thus 
I  shall  be  prepared  to  receive  you.  As  I  find  myself  in  perfect 
health  as  of  old  I  keep  up  the  habit  of  hunting,  and  till  now 
have  preserved  the  memory  of  the  affection  and  keep  your 
name  in  my  heart  to  think  on  and  thank  God  that  you  are 
well  and  will  be  seen. 

Sheykh   Saoud." 

At  Tel-el-Kebir  I  looked  out  and  saw  no  one  at  the  little 
station.  How  changed  it  all  was  !  The  beautiful  garden 
of  orange  trees  had  disappeared,  and  the  place  was  desolate 
and  forlorn.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  my  letter  had  mis- 
carried, and  was  grieved  not  to  see  my  old  hunting  companion 
again.  At  Ismailia,  now  quite  a  big  town,  there  was  a  crowd 
on  the  platform.  I  was  telling  two  ladies  who  were  in  the 
same  carriage  that  I  had  known  it  when  there  was  but  one 
house  and  a  few  tents,  when  a  stalwart,  well-dressed  hedaween 
followed  by  two  others  came  up  to  the  window,  salaamed, 
and  said  :  "  The  eyes  of  the  Rose  of  Tel-el-Kebir."  It  was 
Saoud,  who  knew  me  by  my  eyes  !  Certainly  no  one  in  the 
train  knew  who  I  was — how  could  they  ?  I  should  never 
have  recognized  the  slight  lad  I  had  known  in  the  sixties  in 
the  burly,  self-possessed  man  whose  face  beamed  with  pleasure 
at  my  surprise.  We  shook  hands  alia  Frangee,  and  in  my  very 
halting  Arabic  I  said  how  glad  I  was  to  see  him  again.  He 
wanted  me  to  leave  the  train  and  come  to  spend  some  days 
with  him  in  the  desert,  promising  me  a  good  horse  and  many 
gazelles.  He  had  left  Tel-el-Kebir  and  was  now  Sheykh  of 
the  tribe  in  the  Suez  desert,  as  his  father  was  dead.  How  many 
memories  the  sight  of  Saoud  called  up.    He  and  I  were  almost 


REMINISCENCES  379 

the  only  ones  left  of  those  joyous  days  in  the  desert  :  de  Lesseps 
and  Guichard,  my  father  and  my  husband  were  dead.  Saoud 
was  a  middle-aged  man,  I  was  a  white-haired  old  woman. 
Tears  came  thick  into  my  eyes  as  the  train  moved  out  of  the 
station  and  I  waved  a  last  farewell  to  Shevkh  Saoud. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  sea  was  so  rough  between  Port  Said  and  Naples 
that  the  boat  was  delayed,  and  instead  of  receiving 
the  Markbys  at  Poggio  Gherardo,  they  received 
me.  I  thought  I  had  timed  it  so  well,  but  winds 
and  waves  made  me  twelve  hours  late.  My  Egyptian  holiday 
had  done  me  good,  and  I  began  once  more  to  occupy  myself  with 
my  poderi,  helped  by  my  faithful  David,  who  was  and  is  my 
mainstay.  Having  been  born  a  peasant,  he  could  set  me  right 
if  I  did  anything  that  might  clash  with  the  intricate  laws  of 
mezzeria^  while  at  the  same  time  my  people  were  perfectly 
aware  that  he  looked  after  my  interests  as  though  they  were 
his  own.  During  Henry's  long  illness  David  had  managed 
everything,  and  at  the  same  time  helped  to  nurse  my  husband. 
If  rung  up  during  the  night  he  would  appear  smiling,  as  though 
it  was  quite  a  pleasant  experience  to  be  called  out  of  bed 
after  a  hard  day's  work,  and  when  I  was  so  ill  he  was  gentle- 
ness and  consideration  personified.  In  the  autumn  my  old 
friend  Dr.  Wright  paid  me  a  long  visit,  and  in  January  the 
Markbys  came  as  usual,  so  I  was  not  lonely.  In  1904  I  went 
to  stay  with  the  Miss  Coopers  in  London,  but  my  visit  was 
saddened  by  the  illness  and  death  of  dear  "  Signor."  Till  he 
died  I  never  realized  what  an  influence  he  was  in  one's  life, 
or  how  much,  without  at  all  being  aware  of  it,  one  tried  to 
live  up  to  his  high  standard.  The  memorial  service  in  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral  was  the  most  wonderful  testimonial  of  love 
and  reverence.  Next  to  me  sat  a  workman  with  his  wife  and 
child.  The  little  girl  was  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would 
break,  and  the  man  could  hardly  restrain  his  tears  as  he  said 
rather  apologetically  :  "  He  was  so  good  to  us  and  she  did 

380 


REMINISCENCES  381 

love  him."  I  shook  hands  with  the  man,  for  I  could  not 
speak.  There  were  not  many  people  in  St.  Paul's  with  dry 
eyes.  As  I  went  out  I  met  my  old  friend  Annie  Ritchie, 
Thackeray's  daughter,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  some  years ; 
neither  of  us  could  say  a  word. 

I  had  written  to  my  Poet  to  ask  when  I  could  go  to  Box  Hill 
to  see  him,  and  he  answered  : — 


George  Meredith  to  Janet  Ross. 

Box  Hill,  Dorking,  July  8,  1904. 
"  My  dear  Janet, 

A  crowd  of  applicants  to  come  here  has  kept  me  from 
fixing  the  happier  day  when  I  may  see  you.  Thursday  next 
I  am  free.  Tell  me  if  it  should  suit  you  and  the  train  you 
choose  from  Victoria  to  Box  Hill  by  the  L.B.  and  S.C.  line. 
A  fly  will  meet  you  at  the  station.  That  is  your  friend's 
'  carriage.'  It  will  be  a  revival  of  old  pleasures  to  see  you, 
with  some  clouds  of  memory  overhead,  but  no  longer  obscuring. 
The  death  of  Watts  will  have  grieved  you  as  it  has  me.  My 
friends  are  dropping  to  right  and  left,  and  I  ask  why  do  I 
remain. 

Ever  warmly  your 

George  Meredith." 

It  was  indeed  a  "  revival  of  old  pleasures  "  to  see  the  Poet 
after  so  many  years  that  I  had  been  unable  to  go  to  England. 
He  had  aged  and  his  deafness  had  increased,  but  the  old  fire 
and  brilliancy  were  there,  and  we  talked  for  two  or  three  hours 
about  old  times  and  old  friends,  most  of  them,  alas,  dead. 
"  You  have  something  of  Rose  in  you  still,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
smiling  rather  sadly  as  I  got  up  to  go ;  "  those  were  pleasant 
days." 

In  the  autumn  Mr.  Dent  published  Old  Florence  and  Modern 
Tuscany,  a  selection  of  various  articles  I  had  written  for  various 
magazines,  and  I  began  to  collect  materials  for  a  book  on 
the  palaces   in   Florence.     Hunting   up   the  histories   of   the 


382  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

families  to  whom  they  had  belonged  was  interesting  and 
amusing  work,  but  it  took  a  long  time,  so  Florentine  Palaces 
only  came  out  in  December  the  following  year,  with  illus- 
trations by  a  clever  young  Florentine  lady,  Signorina 
Marchi. 

In  1905  while  the  Markbys  were  with  me  in  March,  Mr. 
Lacaita  asked  us  to  go  to  Leucaspide.  We  slept  at  Rome 
and  at  Salerno  in  order  that  my  cousins  might  see  the  country, 
especially  the  grand  mountain  scenery  between  Salerno  and 
Metaponto.  They  had  heard  me  speak  so  often  about  Apulia 
that  I  was  afraid  they  might  be  disappointed.  But  Sir  William 
was  extremely  interested  in  everything,  and  strode  with  our 
host  over  the  fields  with  his  coat  hanging  on  one  shoulder 
like  a  young  man,  while  Lucy  found  only  too  many  subjects 
for  her  brush  and  could  not  paint  fast  enough.  We  drove  to 
picturesque  Massafra  and  lunched  on  the  great  staircase  which 
leads  down  into  the  gravina  where  is  the  modern  church 
Madonna  della  Scala,  built  on  to  an  ancient  rock-hewn  church 
in  one  part  of  which  were  saints  above  life-size  and  a  majestic 
Virgin  and  Child  painted  on  the  rock.  While  we  were  with 
Lacaita  a  railway  strike  was  declared,  to  Sir  William's  dismay, 
as  he  was  due  at  Oxford  for  some  meeting,  but  rather  to 
Lucy's  joy,  as  she  hoped  it  would  keep  them  longer  in  Leucas- 
pide. The  first  day  it  abated,  with  true  British  determination. 
Sir  William  insisted  on  starting  and  was  rewarded  by  travelling 
like  a  royal  personage.  He  and  Lucy  were  the  only  people 
in  the  train,  and  save  a  small  row  at  the  station  of  Bari,  when 
the  guard  stood  manfully  at  their  carriage  door,  nothing 
happened.  I  remained  with  Lacaita,  and  some  days  later 
went  with  him  to  his  beautiful  place  Ravello,  above  Amalfi, 
Built  in  the  eleventh  century  by  the  Rufoli,  powerful  merchant 
princes,  it  would  take  many  pages  to  describe.  From  the 
principal  entrance  under  a  square  tower  a  broad  walk  led  to 
the  court,  with  exquisite  arches  supported  on  double  columns 
of  white  marble,  which  is  a  marvel  of  architecture.  The 
great  tower  beyond,  a  hundred  feet  high,  part  of  the  ancient 
palazzo,  is  still  habitable.  The  gardens  descend  the  mountain- 
side in  terraces  (Ravello  is  iioo  feet  above  the  sea)  and  the 


REMINISCENCES  383 

view  of  the  coast  is  superb.  Capo  d'  Orso,  with  the  towns  of 
Minori  and  Maori  in  the  middle  of  lemon  and  orange  groves, 
while  beyond  the  bay  of  Salerno  we  saw  the  distant  plain  of 
Paestum  and  the  mountains  of  the  Cilento.  This  old  palazzo 
and  its  gardens  remains  in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  beautiful 
places  I  have  seen  in  my  life. 

The  magnificent  pulpit  in  the  cathedral  was  the  gift  of 
one  of  the  family,  Nicola  Rufolo  (in  1272),  and  is  the  work 
of  Magister  Nicolaus  de  Bartholomeo  di  Fogia.  The  mosaic 
panels  with  peacocks,  small  birds  singing  among  tendrils, 
griffins  and  other  monsters,  are  like  delicate  jeweller's  work. 
Above  the  doorway  of  the  pulpit  is  the  famous  bust,  said  to 
be  his  wife,  Sigelgaita.  The  wide  gap  in  which  it  stands  has 
been  formed  by  roughly  cutting  away  much  of  the  mosaic 
panel  over  the  doorway,  and  is  not,  as  Crowe  and  Caval- 
caselle  say  in  a  very  inaccurate  account  of  the  pulpit,  the 
"  key  of  the  arch  of  the  doorway."  No  one  knows  when  this 
was  done  or  whether  the  bust  ever  formed  part  of  the  pulpit  ; 
it  may  have  stood  on  Sigelgaita's  monument,  no  longer  extant. 
Some  art  critics  declare  that  it  is  not  Sigelgaita,  but  Queen 
Joanna  of  Naples  (which  ?)  or  a  symbolical  figure — the 
Madonna,  Mother  Church,  the  City  of  Ravello.  Whoever 
it  is,  the  bust  represents  a  gloriously  beautiful  woman,  and 
the  work  is  as  fine  and  impressive  as  anything  Greek.  On  the 
sides  of  the  ambo,  opposite  the  pulpit,  are  two  large  triangular 
mosaics ;  one  representing  Jonah  being  swallowed  by  the  whale, 
is  queer,  very  happy-looking  monster,  the  other  the  whale 
spitting  Jonah  out  with  such  a  look  of  disgust  and  sea-sickness 
that  I  could  not  help  laughing  aloud.  Donor  of  the  ambo 
was  Bishop  Constantine  Rogadeo  (1094-1150),  who  also  gave 
the  high  altar.  The  foundation  of  the  cathedral  itself  is  lost 
in  obscurity  ;  it  is  attributed  either  to  Orso  Pappice,  first 
Bishop  of  Ravello  in  1086,  or  to  Nicola  Rufolo,  who  lived  in 
the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century.  The  wonderful  bronze 
doors  are  so  like  those  of  the  cathedral  of  Trani,  and  those  of 
Monreale  in  Sicily  which  bear  the  maker's  name,  Barisanus 
Tranensis,  that  they  are  probably  by  the  same  artist,  par- 
ticularly as  many  of  the  subjects  of  the  panels  are  identical. 


384  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

Ravello  is  now  little  more  than  a  village,  but  in  the  eleventh 
century  she  had  thirty-three  thousand  inhabitants.  The 
nobles  lived  in  a  quarter  by  themselves,  and  in  an  old  history 
is  written  :  "  Here,  surrounded  by  high  walls  the  nobles  de- 
cided to  dwell,  built  sumptuous  palaces,  and  called  the  place 
the  Toro,  which  is  a  marvel  to  behold,  being  situated  in  the 
centre  of  the  city  of  Ravello  in  an  elevated  position  and  strongly 
fortified.  A  doge  of  Amalfi  gave  them  permission  to  build 
a  church,  dedicated  to  St.  John  the  Baptist,  the  most  beautiful 
seen  within  many  hours'  journey  along  our  coast."  Conse- 
crated with  great  pomp  in  1069,  San  Giovanni  del  Toro  is 
fast  falling  to  decay.  The  pulpit  is  very  fine,  covered  with 
mosaics,  Jonah  and  the  whale  among  them,  but  not  nearly  so 
funny  as  in  the  cathedral.  The  arms  of  the  Bovio  who  built  it, 
two  golden  bulls,  shine  out  on  a  groundwork  of  trefoils. 
There  are  some  faded  frescoes  here  and  there  and  a  figure 
in  high  relief,  carved  in  yellow  stone,  which  was  discovered 
some  years  ago  bricked  up  in  a  niche.  It  represents  St. 
Catherine  with  her  wheel,  but  gave  one  the  idea  that  it  was 
a  portrait  of  some  dignified  lady. 

Before  the  death  of  my  husband  we  had  made  acquaintance 
with  Sir  William  MacGregor,  who  was  then  Governor  of 
Lagos,  where  he  waged  successful  war  against  the  deadly 
fever  which  killed  so  many  of  the  inhabitants  by  exterminating 
the  mosquitoes.  All  his  friends  were  anxious  when  he  was 
sent  from  so  hot  a  place  to  icy  Newfoundland.  With  charac- 
teristic energy  he  went  to  see  for  himself  what  Labrador  was 
like  and  wrote  to  me  : — 

Sir  William  MacGregor  to  Janet  Ross. 

Government  House,  St.  John's,  Newfoundland, 

March  6,  1906. 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

Confess  honestly  to  yourself  that  you  are  not  very 
familiar  with  the  affairs  of  Labrador.  Well,  it  is  supposed 
to  belong  to  this  Colony,  but  no  one  here,  except  the  fisher- 


REMINISCENCES  385 

men  that  go  there,  takes  any  interest  in  it.  It  has  been  under 
the  Governor  of  Newfoundland  since  1763,  and  I  am  the 
first  of  the  caste  that  has  ever  gone  north  of  the  Straits  of 
Belle  Isle,  to  visit  that  paradise  of  desolation.  I  am  sending 
you  a  copy  of  my  Report  on  the  Coast.  Most  unfortunately 
I  had  to  leave  it  at  the  best  time,  and  return  here  to  spend 
my  money  and  waste  my  time  in  receiving  a  division  of  the 
British  Navy,  so  that  my  visit  to  Labrador  covered  only 
one  month.  I  hope  to  return  next  summer,  and  to  do  the 
Hamilton  Inlet  and  Rivers  opening  into  it.  There  is  much 
apparent  irrelevant  matter  in  my  Report,  because  Canada 
is  trying  to  '  jump  '  our  claim  ;  we  have  a  great  boundary 
question  with  the  Dominion.  We  once  had  aboriginals  in 
this  country,  but  we  have  hardly  a  bone  of  the  race  in  our 
possession  now.  Their  story,  sad  and  pathetic  in  the  highest 
degree,  will  centuries  hence  be  told  to  the  infamy  of  British 
rule.  Our  glorious  '  pax  Britannica.'  But  in  looking  into  the 
history  of  the  Beothuks  and  Innuits  I  have  had  great  comfort. 
I  have  had  several  papers  sent  me  lately  from  Australia  to 
show  me  that  the  Commonwealth  Government,  the  Senate 
especially,  is  '  solid  '  in  favour  of  the  policy  introduced  by 
me  in  British  New  Guinea.  And  I  have  had  letters  lately 
from  some  leading  men  expressing  the  hope  that  I  might 
go  to  Australia  to  advise  them  what  to  do.  I  wish  I  were 
in  Florence.  The  spring  here  is  very,  very  disagreeable, 
if  indeed  it  can  in  justice  be  called  spring.  I  am  alone.  My 
wife  took  the  girls  home  to  the  school  of  Domestic  Economy, 
With  kind  regards,  ever  faithfully  yours, 

W.  MacGregor." 

To  gain  a  real  friend  is  an  event  in  one's  life,  more  especially 
when  youth  is  long  past  and  only  the  memory  of  old  friend- 
ships is  left.  So  1906  was  a  red-letter  year  to  me  when  I  met 
Principal  Lindsay  of  Glasgow,  kindest  and  most  indulgent  of 
men,  a  scholar  whose  knowledge  was  tempered  with  wit  and 
humour — a  rare  combination.  The  amusing  thing  was  that 
having  been  introduced  to  me  as  Dr.  Lindsay  and  bearing 
no  outward  or  visible  sign  of  clericalism,  it  never  entered 

2C 


386  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

my  head  that  he  was  a  Presbyterian  minister.  Long  after- 
wards a  friend  saw  me  direct  a  letter  to  plain  Dr.  Lindsay, 
and  asked  why  I  did  not  put  his  proper  title  of  Reverend 
Principal.  I  added  an  apology  in  a  postscript  and  he  answered : — 


Rev.  Principal  Lindsay  to  Janet  Ross. 

37  Westbourne  Gardens,  Glasgow, 

November  lo,  1906. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ross, 

I  really  ought  to  apologize  for  coming  to  you  as  a 
wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  ;  but  I  dislike  uniform  of  all  kinds  and 
never  wear  clerical  collars  out  of  Scotland.  They  are  quite 
a  nuisance  in  travelling.  A  clerical  garb  is  a  sort  of  placard. 
'  Enquire  here  for  everything,'  especially  to  ladies,  who  demand 
string,  paper,  ink,  pens,  the  names  of  hotels,  the  proper  tips 
to  give,  etc.  etc.  I  remember  once  at  Waterloo  station  when 
I  was  in  uniform,  a  very  ecclesiastical  lady  accosting  me. 
*  Are  you  a  Churchman,  sir  ?  '  I  naturally  said  '  Yes,'  for- 
getting for  the  moment  that  I  was  in  a  foreign  land — then 
recollecting  said,  '  I  am  a  Presbyterian.'  The  poor  thing  was 
quite  dismayed  at  contact  with  a  schismatic  and  gasped  out, 
'  Bu-bu-but  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  way  to  the  under- 
ground railway.'  Apostolic  succession  was  not  needed  to  give 
correct  information  on  that  point  at  least. 

As  I  must  act  up  to  my  profession  I  enclose  a  '  tract ' 
or  what  will  do  as  well — some  more  jottings  from  the  Reciieil 
des  Historiens  des  Croisades.  I  am  sorry  I  gave  you  its  name 
and  set  you  hunting  for  it.  It  consists  of  eight  huge  folios, 
but  contains,  after  all,  but  little  information.  The  same 
things  are  repeated  over  and  over  again  without  variation. 
I  think  that  with  this  last  set  of  extracts  I  have  taken  out  all 
that  can  be  of  any  use.  The  Resgesta,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
full  of  information  ;  but  I  have  sent  you  the  cream  of  it. 
I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  have  translated  all  the  words  cor- 
rectly. Casale  I  have  always  translated  '  site '  ;  but  I  suspect 
that   it   sometimes   means   '  farm  with   buildings   and  serfs.' 


REMINISCENCES  387 

Then  Curia  I  once  translated  '  space  of  ground  without  build- 
ings ' ;  that  was,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  the  Curia  at  Babylon  ; 
but  on  reconsideration  I  believe  that  there,  as  in  other  places, 
it  means  '  law-court,'  and  the  privilege  granted  was  that  all 
disputes  among  the  Pisans  were  to  be  settled  in  a  law  court  of 
their  own  and  according  to  Pisan  laws.  .  .  ." 

A  few  weeks  later  he  replied  to  a  letter  of  mine  (I  was  writing 
the  Story  of  Pisa) : — 

"...  As  to  your  troubles  about  statistics  I  think  no  one 
can  accept  mediaeval  or  even  classical  statistics — only  no  one 
can  correct  them.  Of  course  it  has  to  be  remembered  that 
hordes  came  from  Europe  on  foot.  Pope  Urban  himself 
confessed  that  if  the  first  hordes  did  not  recover  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  their  march  eastward  benefited  Europe.  It  was 
a  general  jail  delivery  of  Europe,  he  said.  And  Bernard  said 
something  the  same  of  a  later  crusade.  Then  on  ship-board 
men  packed  close  in  those  days  and  later.  Think  of  the  number 
Francis  Drake  stowed  on  board  his  small  ships.  Still  when  all 
is  said  I  never  read  about  the  crusades  without  recalling  the 
confession  an  old  Admiral  made  to  me,  a  stripling.  He 
was  a  devout  old  naval  officer  and  read  his  Bible  with  great 
assiduity — most  of  it,  that  is,  not  all.  He  got  no  spiritual 
contentment  out  of  Joshua  or  Judges.  '  When  I  come  to 
those  Books,'  he  said,  '  the  numbers  get  so  high  and  the  morals 
so  lozv,  that  I  can't  stand  it.'  The  narratives  of  the  crusades 
are  not  unlike  Joshua  and  Judges.  .  .  ." 

I  told  Dr.  Lindsay  that  he  was  like  a  rotatory  bookcase  well 
filled  with  books  of  reference,  to  be  turned  round  when  I 
wanted  information. 

During  the  winter  Edward  Hutton  and  his  wife  were  staying 
near  Poggio  Gherardo  and  we  soon  became  firm  friends. 
An  enthusiastic  lover  of  Italy,  an  assiduous  and  rapid  writer, 
and  possessed  of  a  brilliant  and  personal  style,  Hutton  oc- 
casionally overworked  himself.  Then  I,  with  the  authority  de- 
rived from  age  and  white  hair,  stepped  in  and  decreed  a  day's 


388  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

repose,  which  generally  consisted  in  much  talk  about  Boccaccio, 
whose  life  he  was  engaged  on.  In  order  to  take  him  away 
from  his  desk  I  suggested  that  he,  being  an  indefatigable 
walker,  should  explore  the  country  round  Florence  and  write 
a  much-needed  book  about  the  beautiful  walks,  the  wayside 
tabernacles,  and  the  old-world  villages.  The  result  was 
Country  Walks  about  Florence,  which  came  out  the  following 
year.  Hutton  turned  the  tables  on  me  by  making  me  promise 
to  help  him  in  collecting  all  the  printed  poems  of  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent,  which  were  scattered  in  many  old  and  some 
modern  volumes  of  poetry.  In  an  evil  moment  I  undertook 
the  task,  which  was  slower  and  more  laborious  than  I  ever 
anticipated. 

When  the  Markbys  came  in  the  spring  we  often  talked 
about  the  want  of  sympathy — not  to  use  a  stronger  word — 
existing  between  Englishmen  and  their  Indian  fellow-subjects. 
To  me,  an  ignoramus,  it  seemed  to  have  increased  since  the 
old  days  when  the  voyage  out  took  months  instead  of  weeks, 
and  men  looked  upon  India  almost  as  their  home.  A  letter 
in  the  Morning  Post  struck  me  as  so  unpolitic  and  so  likely  to 
do  harm  that  I  sent  it  to  Sir  William  with  rather  an  angry 
letter.    He  answered  : — 


Sir  William  Markby  to  Janet  Ross. 

Headington  Hill,  Oxford,  June  26,  1907. 

"  My  dear  Janet, 

The  cutting  you  sent  me  from  the  Morning  Post 
is  in  one  sense  interesting,  but  only  because  it  illustrates 
a  phase  of  the  Indian  problem  which  is  perhaps  the  most 
important  of  any. 

The  one  thing  that  all  statesmen  are  agreed  about  and 
have  been  for  a  long  time  agreed  about  is  that  our  greatest 
difficulties  in  India  proceed  from  the  hatred  which  exists 
between  natives  and  Europeans. 

That  the  European  newspapers  and  the  Indian  newspapers 
should  abuse  each  other's  nationalities  is  not  perhaps  surprising. 


REMINISCENCES  389 

but  that  a  member  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service  should  join 
in  this  humiliating  chorus  certainly  surprises  me.  I  do  not 
expect  white  men  and  black  men  to  like  each  other.  They 
have  never  really  done  so.  There  seems  to  be  something 
in  human  nature  which  prevents  it — but  it  is,  I  think,  only 
reasonable  to  expect  that  an  Englishman  holding,  or  who 
held,  an  office  under  Government  should  abstain  from  abuse 
— for  the  extracts  given  show  clearly  that  he  has  not  even 
attempted  to  give  a  true  picture  of  native  character. 

I  will  point  out  an  instance  of  this.  It  is  suggested  that 
the  people  of  Bengal  are  to  be  judged  by  their  worship  of 
the  goddess  Kali,  to  whom  they  sacrifice  goats ;  the  suggestion 
being  that  their  whole  character  is  degraded  by  this  worship. 
It  might  just  as  well  be  suggested  that  the  whole  character 
of  the  Jews  was  degraded  by  the  worship  of  God,  to  whom 
they  also  sacrificed  goats.  Even  the  Christian  doctrine  of 
the  Atonement  is  quite  capable  of  being  represented  as  an 
act  of  fiendish  vengeance  by  a  Deity  otherwise  implacable. 
So  far  from  being  bloodthirsty  and  cruel,  the  Bengalis  are 
gentle  almost  to  a  fault.  I  doubt  if  anywhere  in  the  world 
you  would  find  stronger  ties  of  family  affection.  They  are 
for  the  most  part  peaceable  and  industrious.  They  have 
moreover  achieved  great  distinction  in  law,  science,  medicine, 
and  to  some  extent  in  literature.  There  is  much  to  be  said 
on  the  other  side,  as  I  am  well  aware,  and  if  the  writer  was 
desirous  to  give  a  fair  picture  of  the  natives  of  India  he  would 
be  quite  right  to  bring  it  forward.  .  .  . 

My  dear  Janet,  your  affectionate 

W.  Markby." 

August,  1907, 1  spent  at  Halbau,  a  place  Fritz  von  HochBerg 
had  bought  in  Silesia.  The  journey  from  Berlin  was  through 
a  dreary,  perfectly  flat  country,  with  small  fir  trees  planted 
in  symmetrical  lines,  only  interrupted  by  large  fields  of  potatoes 
or  rye.  A  molehill  would  have  been  a  pleasing  sight.  Halbau 
was,  however,  a  lovely  oasis.  Fine  trees  grew  in  the  park, 
and  the  house  stood  on  an  island  surrounded  by  a  gurgling 


390  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

swift  stream.  From  Japan  Fritz  had  brought  back  a  ship- 
load of  wonderful  things.  Carved  and  painted  friezes  decorated 
the  long  passages,  every  door  was  a  work  of  art,  and  some  large 
landscapes  by  Japanese  painters  quite  fascinated  me.  Japan 
had  evidently  fascinated  my  host ;  for  at  the  back  of  the  house 
he  had  made  a  lake  and  such  a  perfect  Japanese  garden  with 
arched  bridges,  lanterns,  and  queer  monoliths,  that  one  felt 
as  if  the  willow-pattern  plate,  so  familiar  in  youthful  days, 
had  suddenly  become  a  reality.  Unfortunately  the  weather 
was  dull  and  sulky,  and  when  one  day  the  sun  appeared  and 
was  pointed  out  to  me  by  a  gardener  with  some  triumph, 
I  woefully  offended  his  patriotism  by  declaring  it  was  a  yellow 
cheese.  In  the  fir  woods  which  extended  for  many  miles  were 
eight  or  nine  large  and  shallow  lakes  full  of  carp.  They  brought 
in  quite  an  income,  for  Berlin  will  swallow  any  quantity  of 
these  coarse  fish.  The  lakes  are  fished  in  rotation  by  letting 
out  the  water.  The  large  carp  are  packed  in  barrels  and  sent 
off  at  once  to  the  station,  the  small  ones  are  put  into  another 
lake  to  grow.  All  other  sorts  of  fish  are  left  to  die  on  the  dry 
bottom  of  the  lake,  which  is  ploughed  and  sown  with  rye  for 
the  roe-deer.  After  twelve  months  water  is  let  in  again  and 
the  lake  is  stocked  with  small  carp,  which  they  told  me  throve 
so  well  on  snails,  grasshoppers,  etc.,  which  had  collected 
in  the  rank  vegetation,  that  they  did  not  require  to  be  fed  for 
some  months. 

Early  in  September  I  returned  home  to  meet  Dr.  and  Miss 
Lindsay  and  my  friend  Dr.  Tuckey.  We  were  all  bound  for 
the  gresit  f est  a  at  Lucca  of  the  Folto  Santo  (September  13), 
when  the  sacred  image,  carved,  says  the  legend,  by  Our  Lord 
Himself  while  Nicodemus  slept  on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Kedron 
in  Palestine,  is  uncovered  for  twenty-four  hours.  Lucca, 
generally  so  tranquil,  was  in  a  ferment  of  excitement  when 
we  arrived  in  the  afternoon.  In  the  cathedral,  all  hung  with 
crimson  damask,  vespers  were  being  celebrated  by  the  Cardinal 
Archbishop  and  his  Canons,  but  the  people  paid  small  heed 
to  the  service  ;  the  tabernacle,  made  by  Matteo  Civitale  for 
the  great  crucifix,  attracted  them.  One  by  one  they  passed 
through,  gazed  up  at  the  sad,  stern  face  of  Our  Lord,  genu- 


REMINISCENCES  391 

fleeted,  and  after  putting  their  offering  into  a  plate  on  the 
altar,  gave  a  rosary,  a  medal  with  the  Holy  Face,  or  some 
personal  thing,  to  the  priest ;  he  touched  the  feet  of  the  image 
with  them  and  gave  them  back  to  the  worshippers,  who 
passed  out  and  knelt  in  long  rows  outside  the  tabernacle. 
In  the  evening  a  procession  wound  through  the  streets,  the 
Cardinal  Archbishop  resplendent  in  golden  robes  marching 
with  his  clergy  to  the  solemn  Gregorian  chants.  The  illu- 
mination of  the  facade  of  San  Martino,  the  great  lines  of 
the  architecture  picked  out  with  hundreds  of  small  oil  lamps, 
was  wonderfully  beautiful. 

Some  of  the  legends  about  the  Volto  Santo  are  depicted 
in  the  church  of  San  Frediano — the  tabernacle  ship  off  the 
harbour  of  Luni  eluding  all  attempts  at  capture  until  Bishop 
Giovanni  the  Glorious  of  Lucca  arrives ;  and  the  procession 
of  the  great  crucifix  in  an  ox-cart.  But  the  frescoes  do  not 
give  the  earlier  stories  about  the  miraculous  carving  of  the 
Holy  Face,  the  hiding  of  the  image  in  a  cave  by  Nicodemus, 
its  rediscovery  by  Bishop  Subalpino,  or  the  charming  episode 
of  the  French  troubadour  Genois,  who  sang  before  the  "  Saint 
Vou." 

As  Miss  Erichsen  and  I  were  going  to  write  the  Story  of 
Lucca,  I  went  to  the  public  library  and  found  a  most  courteous 
and  kind  librarian,  Cavaliere  Boselli,  who  lent  me  various  old 
books  about  Lucca  and  the  Volto  Santo.  In  Italy,  if  recom- 
mended by  any  well-known  person,  you  are  allowed  to  take 
books  home,  and  if  you  need  some  special  book  it  will  be  got 
for  you  from  any  public  library  in  Italy,  sent  free  of  cost  from 
one  library  to  the  other  by  post.  I  have  had  books  from 
Palermo  and  from  Rome  lent  to  me  in  this  w^ay. 

In  the  winter  I  began  transcribing  and  translating  un- 
published letters  of  Cosimo,  Piero,  and  Lorenzo  de'  Medici, 
and  their  wives  and  friends,  and  found  the  work  so  engrossing 
that  I  determined  not  to  leave  home.  Without  the  kind  help 
of  Dr.  Dorini  of  the  State  Archives  I  could  have  accomplished 
little,  for  the  writing  of  the  letters  was  so  archaic  and  the 
contractions  were  so  puzzling  that  after  hours  of  study  I 
could  not  decipher  much.    How  I  envied  Dr.  Dorini  when  he 


392  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

read  the  letters  with  comparative  ease.  In  August  Florence 
was  quite  empty  and  the  heat  was  great,  so  I  was  surprised  to 
see  a  very  tall  stranger  walk  in  with  a  letter  from  Ambrose 
Poynter.  My  visitor  looked  pale,  no  wonder,  he  had  spent 
July  in  Rome  and  found  Florence  cool  in  comparison.  Frank 
Crisp,  who  had  gained  the  gold  medal  and  the  travelling 
scholarship  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  I  soon  became  friends, 
and  when  he  fell  ill  I  made  him  leave  the  hot  city  and  come  to 
stay  at  Poggio  Gherardo. 

In  May,  1909,  came  the  sad  news  of  the  death  of  my  dear 
Poet,  George  Meredith,  the  old  friend  of  my  childhood, 
the  last  of  that  joyous  circle  which  frequented  the  "  Gordon 
Arms,"  the  last  person  to  whom  I  could  say  "  you  remember." 
What  an  uphill  fight  he  had,  and  how  splendidly  he  won  it. 
I  never  think  of  him  as  the  old  man  I  saw  at  Box  Hill.  He 
lives  in  my  memory  as  the  lithe,  active  companion  who  so 
often  strode  along  by  the  side  of  my  cob  over  Copsham  common, 
brandishing  his  stick  and  talking  so  brilliantly. 

In  the  summer  I  went  to  see  the  Markbys,  who,  alas,  had 
not  been  for  their  usual  two  months'  visit  to  me.  The  weather 
was  wet  and  cold,  and  I  had  an  attack  of  bronchitis,  very  tire- 
some, as  I  had  settled  to  go  to  my  old  friend  Dr.  Wright  in 
Ireland.  For  so  many  years  he  had  been  to  see  me  that  now 
it  was  my  turn  to  go  to  him.  My  bronchitis  turned  out, 
however,  to  be  a  blessing.  I  was  to  cross  to  Ireland  with  the 
doctor's  nephew.  Sir  Almroth  Wright,  who  had  spent  three 
days  at  Poggio  Gherardo  some  time  before.  Three  days  of 
very  great  enjoyment  to  me,  for  it  is  not  often  that  one  meets 
with  a  Sir  Almroth.  As  I  got  into  the  carriage  coughing 
he  said  :  "  You've  got  bronchitis.  When  you  come  to  London 
we  must  cure  that."  I  found  Dr.  Wright  much  changed 
and  aged,  and  as  we  sat  by  the  fire  and  listened  to  the  drip, 
drip,  of  heavy  rain,  we  both  wished  we  were  in  Italy.  He  was 
at  a  place  some  ten  miles  out  of  Dublin,  and  I  was  struck 
while  driving  there  by  the  general  untidiness,  gates  off  their 
hinges,  hedges  and  palings  broken  down,  etc.  Two  days  before 
my  departure  he  began  to  fidget  about  ordering  a  carriage. 
I  put  this  down  to  illness,  but  found  out  that,  as  the  Tuscans 


REMINISCENCES  393 

say,  he  "  knew  his  chickens."  The  hotel  had  once  owned 
a  small  omnibus,  but  it  had  come  to  pieces  some  time  ago. 
I  suggested  that  the  pole  should  be  put  to  a  cab,  as  one  horse 
could  not  take  me  and  my  maid  to  Dublin.  The  hotel  owner 
looked  sad — the  pole  had  been  broken  and  was  not  yet  mended. 
"  Then  borrow  one,"  said  I  imperiously.  This  was  done,  and 
I  got  safely  to  Dublin  and  went  to  Belfast,  where  I  embarked 
for  Scotland.  The  hotel  keeper  told  the  doctor  afterwards 
that  I  was  a  lady  who  knew  what  she  wanted  and  intended 
to  have  it.  I  was  glad  I  went  to  see  my  old  friend,  as  he  died 
not  many  months  later.  When  Principal  Lindsay  was  with  me 
in  the  spring  I  had  promised  to  go  and  see  him  at  Glasgow. 
Unluckily  the  weather  was  horrid,  rain  and  fog  prevailed, 
and  we  had  fires  every  day.  But  the  Principal's  study  was 
delightfully  cosy,  and  his  conversation  made  up  for  the  want 
of  sun.  One  day  a  solemn-looking  man  entered  and  I  left 
them  alone.  Afterwards  Lindsay  told  me  his  acquaintance 
had  been  troubled  with  the  impropriety  he  found  developed 
in  children  of  tender  years.  At  a  school  he  visited  he  had  asked 
questions  in  Bible  history.  One  was  "  What  did  Daniel  do 
in  the  lions'  den  ?  "  A  chubby-faced  boy  of  twelve  promptly 
answered  :  "  Please,  sir,  he  chased  Susannah."  The  Principal 
tried  to  soothe  the  man's  perturbed  spirit  by  suggesting  that 
"  he  chased  Susannah  "  was  only  a  confused  recollection  of 
the  phrase  "  the  chaste  Susannah,"  but  was  rebuked  for 
taking  serious  things  too  lightly.    I  wished  I  had  been  present. 

In  London  I  went  to  Sir  Almroth  Wright,  who  vaccinated 
me  himself  against  my  lifelong  enemy  bronchitis,  and  gave 
me  a  supply  of  vaccine  for  use  here.  The  result  was  mar- 
vellous. Not  only  have  I  been  free  from  bronchitis  for  more 
than  two  years,  but  I  never  catch  cold,  and  am  no  longer  a 
nuisance  to  friends  possessed  of  what  I  call  aero-mania  and 
like  to  live  in  a  whirlwind  of  draughts. 

In  the  winter  Frank  Crisp  came  to  stay  with  me  and  did 
several  portraits,  among  them  the  one  forming  the  frontis- 
piece of  this  book,  which  he  began  half  in  fun  without  telling 
me  while  I  was  at  work  on  Lives  of  the  Early  Medici,  which 
was  published  in  1910. 


394  THE  FOURTH  GENERATION 

The  story  of  my  life  is  finished.  A  happy  one  on  the  whole, 
save  that  I  am  rather  solitary  and  feel  the  void  left  by  the 
death  of  old  friends.  I  have,  it  is  true,  made  others,  and  now 
the  last  page  is  written  I  am  going  once  more  to  Leucaspide 
to  stay  with  one  of  the  kindest,  Charles  Lacaita,  son  of  my 
dear  "  Old  (Ebalian." 


INDEX 


Aid6,  Hamilton,  232 

Albemarle,  Earl  of,  243  ;  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Ross,  247 

Andria,  description  of,  256 

Antrobus,  Sir  Edmund,  54  ;  Master 
of  the  Tedworth  Hounds,  55,  56, 
169 

Antrobus,  Lady,  54,  55,  61 

Arab  stories,  133-135 

Assouan,  167  ;  description  of,  375 

Aumale,  d',  S.A.R.  Due,  45,  83, 
105.  155.  157,334,350 

Aumale,  d',  S.A.R.  Duchesse,  157 

Austin,  Charles,  description  of,  by 
J.  S.  Mill,  26  ;  note  by,  27 

Austin,  Charles,  skit  by,  on  Jeremy 
Bentham,  27-2S 

Austin,  John,  1,3,  12;  at  Weybridge, 
18,  19;  description  of,  21-22; 
death  of,  72  ;  letters  on  death  of, 
72-76,  .i47 

Austin,  Lucie,  marriage  of,  to  Sir 
Alexander  Duft' Gordon,  5 

Austin,  Sarah,  i,  2,  3  ;  letter  to,  from 
Lady  Duff  Gordon,  9-10,  12,  13; 
letter  to,  from  Lady  Duft"  Gordon, 
14  ;  at  Weybridge,  18  ;  description 
of,  V)y  l'>.  St. Hilaire,  18-19;  interest 
of,  in  popular  education,  23,  24 ; 
letter  to,  from  Mrs.  Opie,  24-25  ; 
well  known  in  Dresden,  33,  46, 
48  ;  beauty  of,  as  an  old  woman, 
54i  73,  74,  75  ;  remembered  in 
Malta,  89,  106,  148;  death  of, 
172  ;  letters  from  M.  Guizot  and 
Mrs.  Grote  on  death  of,  172-173  ; 
notice  on,  in  Atheinruni,  174-175, 
285 


B 


BMbbage,    Charles,    calculating    ma- 
chine and  "  wife"  of,  25 
Lakkeet,  Hassan  el.     See  Hatty 


Ball,  John,  160,  284 

Bammeville,  Joly  de,  Indian  Mutiny 

foretold  by,  37-38,  42 
Barletta,  description  of,  254 
Bari,  description  of,  257-258 
Bayley,  C.  J.,  5,  7,  12 
Benevento,  inn  at,  272  ;  description 

of,  273-275 
Bentham,  Jeremy,  i,  2,  21  ;  skit  on, 

by  Charles  Austin,  27-28 
Berenson,  Bernhard,  v,  347 
Berry,  Miss  and  Agnes,  9  ;  descrip- 
tion of,  10- 1  I 
Bode,  Dr.,  buys  Signorelli's  "  School 

of  Pan,"  186 
Boulanger,    General,  description  of, 

by  B.  St.  Hilaire,  277,  279 
Boxall,  Sir  William,  refuses  to  buy 

Signorelli's  "  School  of  Pan,"  186 
Brougham,  Lord,  10,  32 
Brown,  Rawdon,  161  :  letter  from,  to 

Janet  Ross,   162-164;  letter  from, 

to  Janet    Ross,    176-177  ;    invites 

me  to  stay  at  Venice,  178 
Bruce,  Honourable  T.  C,  175 
Buckle,  H.  T.,  in  Egypt,  119 
Bulwer,    Sir    Henry,    arrival    of,  at 

Alexandria,  151-152 
Burr,    Higford,    62,    63,    160,     197, 

240 
Burr,  Mrs.  Higford,  60  ;  description 

of,  63,   131,    160,   197,  227;  death 

of,  313 
Burton,    Sir    Frederick,     197  ;    two 

"  great  masters  "  invented  by,  198  ; 

letter  from,   to  Janet    Ross,   228  ; 

letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  241 
Butler,  Lady,  197 


Cambridge,  Princess  Mary  of,  62 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  discusses  German 
literature  with  Lady  Duft"  Gordon, 


395 


396 


INDEX 


28 ;  hat  of,  blows  off  in  Rotten 
Row,  41 

Casciana,  baths  of,  319-321 

Castagnolo,  villa  of,  hired  by  Mr. 
Ross,  187;  Tom  Taylor  at,  195-196 

Castagnolo,  country  round  the,  198- 
199,  202 

Castel  del  Monte,  description  of,  257 

Castiglione,  Countess,  beauty  of,  40- 
41 

Castromediano,  Duca  Sigismondo, 
259  ;  description  of,  259-260 

Chartres,  S.A.  R.  Due  de,  62;  com- 
mands the  Guides  of  the  Line  in 
1870  as  Robert  le  Fort,  189 

Chianciano,  description  of,  355,  357 

Clanricarde,  Marquis  of,  32,  66  ; 
perfect  horsemanship  of,  S3,  158 

Clemens,  S.  L.  (Mark  Twain),  318, 
319  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross, 
321-322  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross, 
324-325  ;  note  from,  to  Janet  Ross, 
with  letters  to  and  from  secretary 
Morton,  331-332,  333 

Conde,  S.A. R.  Prince  de,  62,  157, 
I5« 

Cooper,  Venetia,  371 

Courtenay,  Louisa,  50,  280,  282,  297 

Cousin,  Victor,  18,  23,  29,  42  ;  de- 
scription of,  43,  89,  179 

Crisp,  Frank,  392,  393 


D 


Dancing  dervishes,  the,  1 10 

Delane,  J.  T.,  41,  67 

Dent,  J.  M.,365,  368,  369,  371 

Dickens,  Charles,  7,  9 

Doseh,  the,  99-100 

Doyle,  Henry,  202 

Doyle,  Richard,  7,  12,  45,  loS 

Dufferin,  Countess  of,  46 

Dufferin,  Marquis  of,  letters  from,  to 

Janet  Ross,  351-352,  353 
Durant,  Susan,  63 


Earthquake  in  Egypt,  136  ;  in  Flor- 
ence, 343-345>  349 

Elliot,  Sir  Henry,  162,  171 

Eothen.     See  Kinglake 

Erie,  Sir  William,  letters  from,  to 
Janet  Duff  Gordon,  72,  132 


Eugenie,  Empress,  36 ;  lines  on  the 
birth  of  her  son,  38 


Fell,   Mr.,    Railway   of,   over    Mont 

Cenis,  178-179 
Florence  in  1867,  170;  popular  songs 

of,   184 
Foggia,  294 

Folklore  in  Southern  Italy,  236 
Franzensbad,  adventure  at,  156-157 
Fyvie  Castle,  description  of,  223-227, 

229 


Galatina,  Church  of  S.  Catherine  at, 

261-262 
Garcia,  Manuel,  54 
Garibaldi,  Giuseppe,  66,  69,  82 
Cjinns,  How  Allah  destroys  the,  99, 

Gladstone,  Right  Honourable  Wil- 
liam, 23,  78  ;  at  Castagnolo,  250, 
322,  323 

Gordon,  Sir  Alexander  Duff,  descrip- 
tion of,  3  ;  marriage  of,  5,  7,  39, 
47,  80 ;  letter  to,  from  Janet 
Ross,  about  Tel-el-Kebir,  139-147; 
comes  to  Egypt,  154,  155  ;  letters 
to,  from  Janet  Ross  from  Luxor, 
164-169,  179-183  ;  death  of,  193, 
206 

Gordon,  Sir  Arthur,  93  ;  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Ross,  322-323,  326 

Gordon,  Cosmo  Duff,  55,  193  ;  death 
of,  200,  201 

Gordon,  Dowager  Lady  Duff,  3  ;  de- 
scription of  the  Miss  Berrys  by, 
10-11  ;  death  of,  199,  200 

Gordon,  Lady  Duff,  description  of, 
by  A.  W.  Kinglake,  5,  7,  8  ;  letter 
from,  to  Mr.  Austin,  9-10 ;  like- 
ness of,  to  the  Emperor  Napo- 
leon I,  12 ;  letter  from,  to  Mrs. 
Austin,  14-15  ;  sees  Kinglake's 
wraith,  16  ;  letter  to,  from  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Norton,  16,  20; 
called  a  "windbag"  by  T.  Car- 
lyle,  28  ;  portraits  of,  30,  44,  50, 
72,  75  ;  presents  bugle  to  Surrey 
Volunteers,  79-80,  8S  ;  letter  to, 
about  Suez  Canal,  from  Janet  Ross, 
123-130-133,  136,  147,  148,  155; 
description  of  life  of,  at  Luxor, 
164-169;  death  of,  181  ;  pen-por- 


INDEX 


397 


trait  of,  by  George  Meredith,  i8i- 
183,  194,  200,  202,  206 

Gordon,  Lina  Duff,  303,  305,  313, 
314,  317.  343.  344,  346,  370.  371 

Gore,  Mrs.  and  Miss,  37 

Grenfell,  H.  R.,  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  284-285 

Grote,  George,  24 

Grote,  Mrs.,  24  ;  letter  from,  to  Sir 
Alexander  Duff  Gordon,  173 

Grove,  George,  207  ;  letter  from,  to 
Janet  Ross,  208 

Guichard,  Jules,  124,  125  ;  at  the 
fete  of  Abou  Nichab,  139-147,  153, 
154  ;  letter  from,  about  siege  of 
Paris,  to  Janet  Ross,  190;  on 
Eoulanger,  279,  379 

Guizot,  F.  P.  G.,  13  ;  letter  from,  to 
Janet  Duff  Gordon,  75,  76  ;  letter 
from,  to  Sir  Alexander  Duff  Gor- 
don, 172-173  ;  patriarchal  life  of, 
at  Val  Richer,  179,  285 


H 

Halbau,  389 

Halim,     H.H.    Pasha,   89,  90;  de- 
scription of,  91,  95  ;  my  race  with, 

loo-ioi,  138,  153 
Hatty,  story  of,  7,  8,  9,   10 ;  death 

of,  20-21 
Hawtrey,   Dr.,  61,  63;  letter  from, 

to  Janet  Duff  Gordon,  74-75 
Haxthausen,    M.   de,  fight  of,  with 

the  Queen  of  the  Serpents,  20 
Head,  Sir  Francis,   letters  from,  to 

Janet  Duff  Gordon,  57-60 
Hekekyan  Bey,  91,  92,  99,  119,  148 
Hekekyan,  Madame,  takes  me  to  a 

Turkish  wedding,  92-93 
HochBerg,    Graf    Fritz    von,     349, 

372  ;  I  go  to  Egypt  with,  373-376  ; 

389.  390 
Hodgkin,  Thos.,  letter  from,  to  Janet 

Ross,  252-254;  letter  from,  to  Janet 

Ross,  290 
Houghton,  Lord,  35,  42 
Hunt,  Holman,  131  ;  letter  from,  to 

Janet  Ross,  180- 181 
Hutton,  E.,  387,  388 


J 

Jephson,  A.  J.  Mountney,  letter 
from,  to  Janet  Ross,  353-354 

Jessop,  Rev.  A.,  letters  from,  to 
Janet  Ross,  243-245 


Kerr-Lawson,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  338 
Kinglake,  A.  W.  (Eothen),  descrip- 
tion by,  of  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  5, 
9  ;  apparition  of,  16,  37  ;  takes  me 
to  House  of  Commons,  41,  42,  57  ; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon, 
62,  78,  80,  81,  82  ;  letters  from,  to 
Janet  Duff  Gordon  on  her  marriage, 
84-85  and  88,  95,  108  ;  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Ross,  102  ;  letter  from  to 
Janet  Ross,  107,  108  ;  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Ross,  137  ;  letter  from, 
about  memoir  of  Lady  Duff  Gor- 
don, to  Janet  Ross,  194-195  ;  letter 
from,  to  Janet  Ross,  on  death  of 
Cosmo  Duff  Gordon,  200-201,  207; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  229  ; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  240  ; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross  about 
Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  276- 
277,  280,  286,  288,  289,  290;  letter 
from,  to  Janet  Ross  about  April  10, 
1848,  291-292,  297;  death  of,  299  ; 
description  of,  300 


Lacaita,  C.  C,  382,  394 

Lacaita,  Sir  James,  212  ;  first  visit 
to,  and  description  of,  213-221, 
232,  234,  250,  258,  261,  263,  294, 
296 ;  how  the  signature  of  the 
agreement  between  France,  Naples, 
and  England  was  prevented  by, 
315-317.  325.  326,  327,  328; 
death  of,  339-340 

Lansdowne,  Marquis  of,  9,  10,  12,  13, 
24  ;  description  of,  48-49,  53,  78, 
132 

Lastra-a-Signa,  old  walls  of,  198 

Layard.SirA.  Henry,  32;  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Duff  Gordon,  63-64 ;  letters 
about  state  of  Italy  to  Janet  Duff 
Gordon,  65-71,  76  ;  letter  from,  to 
Janet  Duff  Gordon,  about  Watts's 
fresco,  77-78,  80 ;  letter  from 
Venice  to  Janet  Duff  Gordon.  81- 
83,  88  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross, 
107-109,  119;  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  120,  131,  155,  156,  160; 
death  and  description  of,  336,  337 

Leaf  insects  cause  great  uneasiness  to 
French  police,  154-155 

Lecce,  description  of,  258-261,  262 

Lechelier,  J.,  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  360-361 


398 


INDEX 


Leighton,  Lord,  131,  172  ;  letter 
from,  to  Janet  Ross,  306-307  ; 
death  of,  350 

Lesseps,  Ferdinand  de,  106,  107  ;  a 
tour  with,  in  the  Isthmus  of  Suez, 
123-130,  379 

Leucaspide,  description  of,  214-221, 
232,  233,  234,  252,  258,  264  ;  the 
pizzica-pizzica    at,    294-296,    297, 

313.  315,  317,  394 
Lewis,    Sir    G.    C.,  3,   35,   47,  89; 

Egyptological  pamphlet  by,   132  ; 

letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  133 
Lindsay,   Principal  T.,   385;  letters 

from,  to  Janet  Ross,  386-387,  390, 

393 
Lucca,  description  of,  390-391 
Lucera,  Castle  of,  265 
Lyndhurst,  Lord,  79 


M 


Macaulay,  Lord,  26,  36,  44,  59,  76  ; 
death  of,  77 

MacGregor,  Sir  William,  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Ross,  384-385 

Manduria,  234,  description  of,  235- 
236 

Manfredonia,  innkeeper  at,  268- 
272 

Markby,  Sir  William,  175-237  ;  ac- 
count of  a  charge  of  heresy  against 
a  preacher  by,  242-243,  248-252, 
324  ;  letters  by,  from  Japan  to 
Janet  Ross,  361-365  ;  letter  by, 
from  New  York  to  Janet  Ross, 
366-36S,  370,  373.  376,  380,  382  ; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  about 
India,  388-389,  392 

Markby,  Lady,  348,  370,  373, 
376 

Marochetti,  Baron,  39 

Martineau,  Dr.  James,  282 

Marzials,  Theo. ,  232  ;  at  San  Gimi 
gnano,  237 

Maxwell,  Sir  W.  Stirling,  46,  201 
202 

Meredith,  George,    19,  20  ;  at  Cop. 
sham,   50 ;   letter   from,    to  Jane 
Duft'    Gordon,  51-52;  verses    by 
for   Schubert's   "Addio,"   53,    54 
78,  81  ;  letters  from,  to  Janet  Duff 
Gordon  on  her  marriage,  86-87 
letter  from,    to  Janet   Ross,    102- 
105  ;  letter  from,  about  his  Italian 
journey,   to  Janet  Ross,   113-11S 
letter    from,   to  Janet  Ross,   120- 


122  ;  letter  from,    to   Janet    Ross, 

148-151,  161,  330,  331,  352,  372  ; 

letter  from,  to  Janet    Ross,   381  ; 

death  of,  3q2 
Mezzeria,  or  land  tenure  in  Tuscany, 

203-205 
Mill,  J.  S.,  2;  description  of  Charles 

Austin    by,  26-27  '■>  letter  from,  to 

Janet  Duff  Gordon,  74 
Moore,  Thomas,  15,  35 
Monro,     Provost    of    Oriel,    at  San 

Gimignano,  237 
Montepulciano,  description  of,  355- 

356 
Monte  Sant'  Angelo,  266  ;  descrip- 
tion of,  268-272 
Morris,  Mowbray,  7,  137 
Murray,  John,  240,  242,  289 


N 

Napoleon  III,  Emperor,  34,  36,  38, 

44 
Napoleon,   Prince  Louis,  9,    14,  25, 

29 
Napoleon,    Prince    Jerome,  36,  80 ; 

arrival  of,  in  Egypt,  138 
Nemours,     S.A.  R.       Duchesse    de, 

death  of,  44 
Nemours,  S.A. R.  Due   de,  44,  83, 

280 
Nettleship,  J.  T. ,  348;  letter  from, 

to  Janet  Ross,  349 
Newton,  Sir  Charles,  232,  280 
North,    Marianne,    205,    206,    280 ; 

letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  281 
Norton,   Honourable  Mrs.,   12,    15; 

letter  from,  to  Lady  Duff  Gordon, 

16;  description    of,   46,   49,    155, 

202,  352 

O 

Olagnier,   A.,  letter  from,  to  Janet 

Ross,  about  siege  of  Paris,    191- 

192 
Opie,  Amelia,   letter  from,  to  Mrs. 

Austin,  24-25 
Oppenheim,  Henry,  119,  136 
Orsi,  Carlo,  196,  254,  255,  260,  262, 

266,     271,    272,     274,    359,    360; 

death  of,  365,  367 
Otranto,  description  of,  262-264 
Outram,  Sir  James,  no;  letter  from, 

to  Janet  Ross,  131 
Oxford,  Bishop  of  (S.   Wilberforce), 

63  ;  ghost  story  told  by,  64-65 


INDEX 


399 


Paris,  S.A.R.  Comte  de,  62  ;  breaks 

his  leg,  83-84,  105 
Phillips,  H.  W.,  28  ;  paints  portrait 
of  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  30  ;  comes 
to  Egypt,  153,  175,  180 
Pliny's  Well,  at  Manduria,  235 
Poggio  Gherardo,  283,  2S4  ;  descrip- 
tion of,  287-289 
Popular  songs  in  Florence,  184 
Power,  Marguerite,    119,    120,    123, 
131 


R 


Ranke,  Leopold,  23,  24 
Rapolano,  baths  of,  333-334 
Rarey,  Mr.,  how  he  tamed  Cruiser, 

57 
Ravello,  description  of,  382-384 
Reeve,  Henry,  5,  41  ;  letter  from,  to 
Janet  Ross  about  society  in  Nor- 
wich, 230-231,276,  279,284;  letter 
from,   to  Janet    Ross,  324  ;  letter 
from,  to  Janet  Ross  on  death  of  Sir 
James  Lacaita,  340,  352 
Rogers,  Samuel,  15 
Romilly,  Sir  John,  2,  21,  76 
Rusce,  260 


Saoud,  142,  145  ;  fine  shot  by,  146, 
153,  166  ;  telegram  of,  to  me,  378  ; 
last  sight  of,  379 

Scheffer,  Ary,  45 

"  School  of  Pan,"  by  Signorelli, 
bought  t>y  Mr.  Ross,  iSj  ;  sold  to 
Dr.  Bode,  1S6 

Scott,  Sir  Claude  and  Miss,  155 

Shaheen  Bey,  story  of,  97-98 

Senior,  Nassau,  2,  9,  35,  76,  91,  131 

Senior,  Mrs.  Nassau,  53 

"  Signor  "  (G.  F.  Watts),  40,  45,  57, 
77,  83,  103,  138;  letter  from,  to 
Janet  Ross,  304-305  ;  death  of,  380 

Signorelli,  Luca,  the  "  School  of 
Pan,"  bought  by  Mr.  Ross,  185 

Silkworms,  rearing  of,  222-223 

Somers,  Earl,  131,  159;  improvises 
verses,  160 

Somers,  Countess,  49,  160 

St.  llilaire,  Barthelemy,  letter  from, 
to  Janet  Ross  about  Mrs.  Austin, 
18-19  ;  letter  from,  to  Mrs.  Austin, 
29,  30,  42,  43,  179  ;  letters  from, 
to    Janet   Ross,    187-189;  private 


mission  of,  to  King  Victor  Em- 
manuel, 192  ;  corrects  my  transla- 
tion of  my  mother's  Letters  from 
Eoyp!^  206  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  207,  242 ;  on  Bouianger, 
Thiers,  etc.,  277-278,  279;  letter 
from,  to  Janet  Ross,  on  finishing 
translation  of  Aristotle,  298-299, 
336  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross, 
Zyii  34°  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  341  ;  last  letter  from,  to 
Janet  Ross,  347  ;  death  of,  348 

Stories  of  Hareems,  95-98 

Stufa,  Marchese  Delia,  1S7,  2S3  ; 
death  of,  2S6 

Suez  Canal,  The,  106,  107,  108,  109  ; 
in  1862,  123-130 

Sulieman  the  Nightingale,  story  of, 

95-97 

Sultan,  the,  arrival  of,  in  Egypt,  135- 
136 

Symonds,  John  Addington,  my  first 
meeting  with,  209-210;  translation 
of  Rispetti  by,  210-21 1  ;  letters 
from,  to  Janet  Ross,  211-212; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Ros«;,  293-294 ; 
letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross,  301-302, 
303,  306  ;  letters  from  Rome,  to 
Janet  Ross,  307-313  ;  letter  from, 
about  Michelangelo,  to  Janet  Ross, 
318  ;  letters  from  Leucaspide  and 
Salerno,  to  Janet  Ross,  325-328  ; 
death  of,  329 


Tarantismo,  description  of,  235-236 
Taranto,    Archbishop    of,   217-219  ; 

procession  of  Misteri  in,  220-221 
Taylor,    Lucy,    18 ;  marriage   of,  to 

Mr.     (afterwards     Sir)      William 

Markby,  175 
Taylor,  Tom,    7,   12,   13,  14,  33,  39, 

49.   78,  79.  180,  193;  at  Castag- 

nolo,   195-196,  200;  death  of,  206 
Taylor,  Mrs.  Tom,  39,  53,  193,  195- 

196,  210 
Teck,   Duke  and  Duchess   o.',   212- 

213 
Tel-el-Kebir,  124,  125  ;  fete  oi  h\ion 

Nichab,  near,  139-147,  378 
Tennyson,  .-Mfred,  16,  40,  56 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  12  ;  lines  to  Lady 

Duff  Gordon,  13 
Thiers,  L.  A.,  187,  191,  192,206 
Tozer,    Rev.    H.   F.,   letter  from,   to 

Janet  Ross,  292-203 
Trani,  description  of,  254-256 


400 


INDEX 


Tuscan  agriculture,  202 
Tylor,  Sir   Edward,  letter  from,  to 
.  Janet  Ross,  248,  249 


Valdieri,     description    of,    357-360, 

369 
Varese,  370 
Victor  Emanuel,  King,  entry  of,  into 

Venice,  160,  171,  176 
Vivier,  M.,  description  of,  33-35 
Volterra,  description  of,  238-240 


W 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  341 ;  letters 
from,  to  Janet  Ross,  342-343  and 
346,  347 


Watts,  G.  F.  ^^^  "  Signor  " 
Watts,  Mrs.,  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  about  Mr.  Meredith,  330- 
331  ;  letter  from,  to  Janet  Ross, 
about  "Signer's"  birthday,  334- 
335>  346 '  letter  from,  to  Janet 
Ross,  on  death  of  Lord  Leighton, 

350-351.  369  . 

Werd-en-Neel,  dancing  and  singing 
of,   111-113 

Wickham,  Rev.  E.  C. ,  Dean  of  Lin- 
coln, letter   from,   to  Janet  Ross, 

338-339 
Wilde,    Mrs. ,    243  ;  letter    from,   to 

Janet  Ross,  245-247 
Wright,  Sir  Almroth,  392 ;  cures  my 

bronchitis,  393 
Wright,  Dr.  E.  Perceval,  description 

of,  227-228,  320,  35S,   359,   392, 

393 


WILLIAM    BRENDON    AND    SON,    LTD. 
PRINTERS,    PLYMOUTH 


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